Intervamption

by Kristin Miller

  “You mean someone like you?” Holding onto Dylan’s hand tight, Slade extended his arm to gain some room between his body and hers. Damn, he needed to get her somewhere safe. “You want my status, canine, you can have it. I’m not interested anymore.”

  “Ah, now come on, where’s the fun in that? Now I know those snappers have gone to your brain. Spoken like a true leech. We all want to be legendary, Slade, it’s in our genes. I think if I drag you down and out, it just might prove to Moses that I’m the one—”

  Without wasting another second of morning twilight, Slade leapt through the air, pouncing on Bastard with a fury meant to strike down the Gods. Their muscular bodies hit the ground hard, rolling over the concrete like the beasts they were.

  The scrolls slipped from Slade’s grasp, rolling along the asphalt before coming to rest in the gutter.

  When Bastard reached for his boot, Slade grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back, applying enough pressure to detach it from his shoulder completely. Out of the corner of his eye, Slade caught sight of the thing he was reaching for: a long silver blade.

  As Slade went for the shaft, Bastard flipped, rolled to his side. Slade scrambled over the top. After Slade had him pinned again, he took a few hard-knuckled shots to his noggin, bloodied his right eye good.

  Bastard laughed.

  It only fueled Slade’s anger. “You think this is funny?” he hissed. “Wait until I get you somewhere private, you mangy bastard.”

  “You,” he groaned, the pressure of Slade’s weight on his ribcage too much to handle. “They’re coming for you.”

  Slade reared up, dragging Bastard to half-sitting by his collar. “Let them come for me. I’ll take them all on if they’re gonna run with your greedy pack.”

  “Not you, asshole,” he spat. “Dylan.”

  The sound of someone calling her name had Dylan peering around the corner of the building she’d taken shelter behind.

  Bastard pointed right at her. “She’s your mark.”

  In the blink of an eye, the Bastard unsheathed the dagger from his boot. Cut a crescent slice through Slade’s middle.

  Cries pierced the early morning air. Dylan’s cries.

  Slade’s vision went black. His ears tunneled out. Tingling pools of warmth spread from his stomach to his chest.

  For the life of him he couldn’t shift. He struggled to focus on another form. Any form. Anything to take him away from the pools of lava melting in his gut and Dylan’s cries echoing in his ears. All he had to do was shift into another form and the searing pain would go away. It’d be nothing but a distant memory.

  When he thought he might’ve been able to concentrate on a form long enough, he remembered Dylan and the Bastard beneath him. The bastard who’d no doubt use Dylan as nasty leverage while Slade gathered his wits afterward.

  No, he couldn’t shift and leave her at his mercy. Now was the time to be the warrior she needed him to be.

  He swallowed hard, clenching all the hate and anger into a ball deep down in his gut. As he opened his mouth to roar a battle cry of vengeance and death, darkness consumed him.

  His last thought was that he’d just lost it all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Vamp Authorities now believe mundane killings plaguing the streets of San Francisco are being staged by therians to shatter whatever’s left of our vampire-therian truce. Now we just have to figure out who would do such a thing . . . and why.”

  —CrimsonTV Late Night News with Fang Newman

  The haven had been bustling with excitement for weeks. Winter Solstice was upon them, dragging the longest night of the year to their doorstep with their Primus regrettably attached. Preparations were nearly finished for the pre-Court celebration. Hundreds of black roses and music had been easy to come by. One day away and the place looked like a Gothic re-do of Queen Elizabeth’s wedding. The great room was cleared out to make way for dancing; priceless diamond-encrusted chandeliers reserved for the yearly event dangled from the vaulted ceiling.

  Savage had more important things to worry about than flowers, music, and decorations, however. He had to somehow get enough blood stocked away for their feast. As it was, blood banks were close to dry, and vampires were being forced to use alternative methods to satiate their needs.

  So far Savage had closed a blind eye to what vampires were doing on the streets. Who cared if they took a human or two? It’s not like there weren’t still six billion people overpopulating the earth. When the Primus returned, he’d be less than pleased, though it’s not like Savage cared. He had bigger things on his plate. Tonight was the Eve of Winter Solstice; the night referred to in his recovered snippets of scroll. Something big was about to go down and he still had no idea what that thing was.

  He still hadn’t found the catacombs. Or the scrolls in their entirety. But he tried not to let that bother him. He didn’t get to his rank because the path had been clear and easily marked. No, he made it to where he was because he knew how to thrash and cut his way through the jungles of bullshit. And that’s exactly what his team found him when they searched the haven from top to bottom for that damned entrance—jack shit.

  Savage couldn’t help but feel drawn to the scraps of scrolls. Like they whispered his name from their safe haven deep in Huxley’s pages. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew the prophecy was about him.

  Heir to the throne . . . Walk the earth as Primus.

  It had to be him. Had to be. After he got rid of Erock, of course. Sliding into place behind him was going to be a sticky situation all its own. How he was going to remove the son of a bitch from his royal platform so soon after the Valcdana was beyond his scope of vision. He couldn’t think about that now, he reminded himself. He had to stay focused. One careful step at a time was the way to kill your way to the top, and—

  Ruan banged on his chamber door, peeked inside. “You wanted to see me, Savage?”

  “Yes.” He shoved all the papers on his desktop into the top drawer. “Is the situation on Fell Street cleaned up?”

  “Bullet successfully dodged. As far as I can tell, the therian front is quiet. Real quiet, actually. Guess we misinterpreted all their movement as normal regrouping.”

  Savage crossed his arms, eyed Ruan carefully. “We have another problem, Ruan, that I’d like to put in your hands. I have information that there’s a therian in our midst.”

  “What are you talking about? Like, here?” His voice kicked up an octave. “As in, one of us?”

  Nodding in silent agreement, Savage wondered how best to reiterate the Intel.

  “That’s not possible,” Ruan said, dragging his fingers through his thick blonde waves. “Therians can’t shift into vampire form.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but someone on haven grounds sent me this message.” He tossed the telling envelope at Ruan’s chest.

  Ruan opened it, scanned the letter quietly, then met Savage’s eyes. “It’s a mistake. Has to be. This guy’s gotta be mistaken.”

  “All we need is a what if. What if this person’s right? What if we ignore this warning and get bit in the ass because we were too lame to follow through. What if . . .”

  “The answer to all that is we’re in shit-loads of trouble. If you wanted to take it seriously, then he could be anyone. He could be infiltrating our systems as we speak. Has our Primus been notified of the threat yet?”

  “You, the person who delivered this little anonymous tip, and I are the only ones who know, and that’s the way we’re going to keep it. If we told people that there was a therian capable of shifting into vampire form, it’d cause pandemonium. That’s the last thing we need right now, the night before the largest celebration of the year.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Ruan’s eyes were palm green, matching the hue of his turtleneck, contrasting with the crisp blue of his jeans.

  Savage went palms-down. “We’re going to flush him out. During the Winter Solstice celebration, you’re going to systematically que
stion anyone new to our khiss, starting with the newborns from the last Induction. If this tip is right, the coward hasn’t been here long. When he starts getting wind we’re on his tail, he’ll show it. You’ll just look for the twitchiest son of a bitch in the place.”

  As a smile curved Ruan’s full lips, his phone rang. He flipped it open. “This is Ruan.”

  His face fell flat in seconds.

  “Where are you now?” After a long silence he said, “Calm down, Dylan, it’s all right. Everything’s going to be . . . yes, I remember. What do you need me to do? . . . I’ll get right on it. Lay low, Dylan, and I’ll see you tonight.”

  He slowly clamped the phone closed as if that’s the last thing he wanted to do. “Dylan and Slade were attacked by a therian in Valenville,” he finally said, his voice much too low. “They’re not going to make it back by sunrise.”

  Damn shame. Savage did his best to reign in his smile. Slade was a pain in his ass and a failure as a newborn. Who’d care if he got charred at this point? “What the fuck were they doing way out there?”

  Ruan’s eyes got real shifty, darkening a few shades over from deep moss to evergreen. “She said they talked with Meridian. She said—”

  “Meridian? Shit, you’ve got to be kidding me. That old bat’s been underground for centuries. Valenville, you say?”

  Ruan nodded mindlessly. “Dylan said Eve’s blood holds the antibodies we’ve been searching for. . . . Holy hell . . . do you know what this means, Savage? Our blood supply will be fine. ReVamp will stay open. She did it.”

  “Yeah, it also means we need this Eve at our haven yesterday. Get to it.”

  “Me? No, I should see what I can do about getting Dylan back here in one piece. Why not send out the squad to recoup Eve?”

  “You think I want to take a chance that the therian in our ranks is on the squad? What do you think they’d do if they got wind we have the cure to make our race stronger? They’d wipe us off the map, that’s what. The fewer people who know what’s going on, the better . . . less chance for things to get fucked up that way. Now go.”

  Ruan opened his mouth as if to challenge a direct order, then clamped it shut and stormed out of his chamber. Savage could’ve sworn he heard Ruan growl in defiance as the door closed.

  When Savage was alone again, he poured a glass of rum and Coke and let his brain unravel.

  “Fuck me,” he breathed. “Eve of Winter Solstice fell right into my arms.”

  Thanking any Lord that would listen, Savage bowed his head. He’d discovered Dylan’s plan of action before she’d stepped an inch closer to the key to their salvation. If she’d gotten there first, things could have gone sour.

  It was more proof that he was the one to cause the revolt . . . and the one who’d save the khiss and rise to Primus.

  Suddenly a giant weight lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t have to scramble around trying to find enough blood for the celebration, oh no. He’d just drain Eve within an ounce of her life and use her glorious donation to feed their khiss. They’d be so thankful for their renewed strength, they’d gladly follow him wherever he led them . . . and he’d lead them straight to anger and retribution. Shut down ReVamp’s doors. Illuminate the therian in their midst. Start the revolt against therians.

  Savage the Chosen One will rise to the occasion as their Savior, their Primus.

  Finally, after all these years, he’d regain the cherished status he once had—the one taken from him by his merciless father because of a tiny oversight that wasn’t even his fault.

  Retribution was finally his. And the day of reckoning was upon them.

  As Moses hung up the phone back at Mirage, he knew he’d made the right call. Gathering all the Sheiks in Crimson Bay into one place was an offensive move that hadn’t been attempted in nearly a hundred years.

  Their inherent flaws made meeting regularly in large groups impossible.

  Each Sheik was hungry for power and every other Sheik in the room had more of it—at least in the eyes of the greedy, rage-aholic bastard sitting across from him.

  Tonight they’d wage an offensive therian movement, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in centuries. Tonight they’d rattle the foundations of a local khiss that would reverberate throughout Crimson Bay, sending a booming message of fear and subsequent obedience scattering through every other khiss.

  Moses had his ear to the ground and no word or whisper about his involvement in the Fell Street massacre had been spoken. He also hadn’t heard back from the therian he sent to deliver the message to Slade. When someone faced off against Slade, it hardly went well.

  He hoped the therian had enough wits about him to keep his trap shut and relay only what Moses told him to. Though, judging from the passing check-in time, he had to count that therian down and out.

  Now the ball was in Slade’s court. Thanks to the information he’d relayed about their ridiculous Winter Solstice illumination ritual or whatever the fucking thing was called. The next person to go through with the Valcdana would be the one to end the war.

  And next up were Dylan and Erock. Poor fucks.

  As long as Slade made his mark with his rumored speed and precision, Moses could hold his head high, report to his ally in the vampire khiss that Slade had completed his part of the mission. If Slade went back on his word, however, his ugly hide was on the line. His name would be smeared in the mud with other shameless traitors, and Slade knew that. Knew it well, judging from how he’d lived the last century underground.

  That incentive was the only reason Moses had any faith in Slade completing his assignment at all.

  As Sheik after Sheik made their way into Mirage, their identities blanded by matching leather trench coats and combat boots, they took their seats around the inner circle. Moses delighted in the fact that this monumental meeting was held on his turf.

  Little did they know, they were puppets on Moses’s twisted and tangled string.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Strength, speed, and power can be powerful motivators. Make sure those abilities are motivating you in the right direction.”

  —Newborn Induction Handbook, Chapter 20: Temptation

  As the bloody knife fell from Dylan’s hand and cartwheeled across the concrete, she gasped.

  What had she done? The world spun in a million different directions, making her feel like she was stuck in a violent tornado she couldn’t escape from. She tried to slow down the last few seconds, replay them in her mind, but everything was a blur.

  All she knew is there wasn’t one knife . . . there were two. Therians were nothing if not prepared for battle, she supposed. He’d had a knife in each boot. The one he’d sliced Slade with was dangling out of his lifeless fingers. The other, a longer jagged blade, Dylan had stolen from his boot and stabbed him in the back, piercing his heart.

  Dylan dropped to Slade’s side. His cut was deep and wide, like a grotesque smiley face bubbling out of his side. She leaned over him, putting pressure on the wound.

  Damn it, she should’ve stopped working for two goddamn seconds and paid more attention to shows like Grey’s Anatomy. If she knew what to do, how to stop the bleeding, maybe then she could start feeling and acting like a badass instead of a scared, insecure sidekick who didn’t know whether to shake Slade until he was conscious or drag him to the back of her Jetta.

  “Slade?” Her voice was much too weak to portray the strength he needed. “Slade, can you hear me? Oh God, please . . . please don’t leave me here. . . .”

  There was too much blood. It pooled around his body, stretching out into oozing fingers that dribbled into the gutter.

  She didn’t know where the thought came from, but suddenly her plan of action became clear. Like someone whispered it right in her ear: Stop the bleeding.

  She slung her sweater over her head, balled it up and pressed it against the wound, then searched around frantically for someone to help or tell her what to do next

  Then there came that whispered vo
ice again. Clear and crisp as a full moon: Check his vitals.

  He was breathing, she knew that much. His massive chest rose and fell beneath the heavy layers of his black sweatshirt.

  She put her head to his chest . . . and listened. His heart rate, though weak, was there.

  She scanned the apartment complex and street. Commuters were filing out of their homes now, buzzing around the streets, so far oblivious to anything but their morning coffee and work schedule for the day.

  Now get him off the street. The voice was deep. Commanding. Definitely not her own. There was no pretending the voice was in her head now.

  Estimating the slant of the shadows on the street and the pink hue in the sky quickly changing to cloud-dominated gray, Dylan knew she had roughly ten minutes, give or take, to sunrise; she hoped it was give.

  That’s when the thought hit her like a sledgehammer. She always kept DayGuards in her glove box in case . . . in case of what, she never knew. Now, she supposed, she kept them for times such as these. She swung open the Jetta’s passenger door, clambered inside, and unhinged the glove box.

  After sifting through piles of an embarrassingly large amount of Blood-Blaster wrappers, she had a fleeting thought that she really needed to cut back. Sadly, those sugar and blood coated candies had lately been a necessity as much as the internal sunblock pills. Sugar kept her engine running hot, and the blood provided necessary proteins, while the DayGuards radiated protection against the sun from the inside out.

  Sort of a special-branded SPF-V.

  She found the crumpled Ziploc containing a single pill on the bottom of the glove box. She shoved the thing down her throat, said a quick prayer of effectiveness, and turned her attention back to Slade.

  She roped her hands beneath his arms and dragged him to the small patch of shade provided by the Jetta’s frame. Dylan jerked open the back door and reached inside for her jacket when the rising sun cast an orange glow through the car, over her body, her hands, her face. Her nose and cheeks felt the burn first. The pain started dull, a numbing, tingling sensation that spread across her skin, and felt more like cool chills than the sun’s heat. It didn’t take long for those chills to morph into a slow burn.