Betrayed by Blood

by Beth Dranoff

  I glanced down, cheeks going red. Whoops. So much for tough, black-on-black fashion-statement girl Dana. I did mention my earlier plan had involved staying in, right? Sam glanced over, not really seeing me, then went back to pacing again as he and Anshell worked out whatever they were planning.

  I found a pair of modified baggy black cotton boxer shorts that fell to just above my knees, and paired it with a comparably loose vee-necked black t-shirt that hugged me in only the best places. Slouch socks and my Doc Martens. I really wanted to be wearing flip-flops in this heat, with the option of bare feet, but I needed to be able to run. Without tripping, that is.

  “Anshell is sending over a backup team, just in case,” said Sam. “Are you comfortable going in alone—or at least pretending to be? Gives us the element of surprise. Plus, it’ll be fun to see what they do with a cute and harmless little lady.”

  I snorted. The dimple that jumped in Sam’s cheek said he was teasing, trying to get a rise out of me. Because I might be cute, but I was far from harmless all on my own.

  “Don’t worry,” Sam continued, in case maybe I was feeling it. “We’ll have your back. Right?” He glanced over at Jon, who chin-bobbed his confirmation.

  “Whoever texted me said no cops,” I pointed out.

  “Do I look like a cop to you?” Sam’s mouth stretched into that itching-for-a-fight grin I knew far too well. Remembered how it tasted, after; glanced away before anyone noticed.

  I grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder, grand-waving the guys towards the door.

  So much for a relaxing night at home.

  * * *

  “You sure this is the place?” Even though we’d followed the directions, I had to ask.

  The smell was familiar; a pungent reminder of the brine-soaked fish and acrid diesel fuel run-off smudged on the edges of the mysterious sheet of paper that brought us here.

  It was an unremarkable spot along the recovering-from-industrialization southeast section of the Don River that ran parallel to Lake Shore Boulevard under the flaking concrete chunks of the Gardiner Expressway. Used to be an outdoor market for the First Nations communities who lived here before entitled white settlers drove them out. Now, the polluted waterway was an urban symbol of what factories and road salt and overflowing sewage lines could do to a valuable freshwater resource if left unprotected. It could have been beautiful. Instead, the place stank—despite recent efforts to reclaim it—and the shimmering waves of Toronto heat weren’t helping.

  “There,” I said. We’d parked over the bridge leading to Cherry Beach, not far from the sludge-side patio bar, and hiked back alongside shadows flickering in the intermittent oncoming traffic headlights. If I squinted, I could make out the outline of a dock with some kind of white-painted structure—a boathouse maybe? I knew they’d started building soundstages and studios around here, but this close to the rattling grates of the lift bridge where concrete mixers still thundered by? It seemed unlikely.

  The ground beneath me thrummed, vibrating the flesh of my inner thighs; from inside the building I heard tree-trunk-heavy thuds, erratic beats against wooden walls, and I wondered whether the entire thing would splinter as we watched. Would certainly save us time.

  I didn’t know where our Pack-backup was, or whether it had even shown up. If it was just me I wouldn’t be counting on it at all, but Sam was in a different loyalty category. As Anshell’s shadow, the one who flanked the Pack Alpha at all necessary times, Sam carried almost as much executional authority as Anshell. The Alpha’s trust in him was that strong.

  Still wasn’t sure whether my sleeping with Sam made things better or worse for me with the Moon with Seven Faces clan.

  “I’ll be back,” said Jon, melting into the night from one eye blink to the next.

  Uh, OK.

  “I’m still here.” Sam breathed the words into my ear; for a moment, I forgot we were on a late-night mission to rescue Sandor. All I could feel was Sam. But then there was another thud and I shook my head to clear it, balling my fingers into fists and digging my nails into my palms until I was back in the now again.

  There was a barn-door-type entryway, painted in red. No windows, I realized as we got closer—so much for getting a visual on what we were walking into ahead of time. I wasn’t a big fan of surprises. Too bad the universe had determined this was to be one of my life’s challenges to overcome. Attached to the doorframe was a triple-fist-sized cowbell dangling from a cast iron hook with a string.

  I yanked.

  The sound was louder than I’d expected, and I jumped back and glanced around in case. In case of what I wasn’t sure, but if I was surprised there was a good chance someone other than me was too. Unless that last part was wishful thinking.

  I was babbling in my own head now. Some kind of plan would be great other than hey, let’s get there and see what happens.

  Too bad that’s all we had to go with.

  A shadow flickered against the light peeking out the underside of the door before a portion I hadn’t noticed earlier swung back to bang against something hard. I knew Sam was there without me checking. Because he wouldn’t leave me. Not like that.

  Couldn’t see anything from this distance. I stepped inside.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell. Rotting fish, briny water, roasted garlic mixed with newly decayed compost. I gagged. Smell had always been my weak spot, but it’d gotten so much worse since I was infected with the ability to shift. Even though my inner cat kind of liked the piscine part of the scent bouquet. A flickering from the neon panels overhead was doing nothing for my ability to control my urge to gag and I looked away, swallowing in convulsive gulps, before the room stopped spinning and I could make out shapes.

  One of those shapes was Sandor and he was breathing. I checked. My shoulders unclenched, taking some of the tightness in my jaw with it, and I scanned the room to see what else was going on.

  Other than the big pile of tentacles wrapped around my boss, and what I assumed was a head to go with it even though I couldn’t see the damned thing, there wasn’t much.

  “Hey!” Everyone who was interested already knew I was here, so I figured calling out to get the attention of whatever it was wouldn’t do too much damage. I hoped. “You texted, and here I am.” At Sam’s growl behind me, I corrected myself. “Here we are.”

  All around me were voices, echoing syllables along the wired twang of a guitar string. One source amplified. I tried to make out individual words but couldn’t. Sam was growling again, and more; fear skittled down my spine as I tossed out a silent prayer for things not to hit exponential badness before we could figure out what was at stake and how to turn things around.

  I touched Sam’s arm, startled at the fur I felt already covering his forearm in a silken plush. Hadn’t even occurred to me to shift. He’d been a were longer than I had—was this loss of control normal?

  And if not, what was going on here?

  First Sandor, then Sam. That I appeared to be as yet unaffected was reassuring and concern-inducing at the same time.

  “Sandor?” I had to try again. “Can you give us a hint? What’s going on here and how can we help?”

  “Dana grrrlll,” Sandor slurred. His eyes were glassy; I wasn’t sure whether it was from shock or whether he’d been drugged. “I have such a craving for grilled octopus...” One of Sandor’s eyes flicked to the right, then winked at me before going unfocussed again. Oh. So it was just an act. I could work with that.

  Sandor was giving me a hint. We were dealing with something big and octo-tentacled, while suspending our disbelief that such an entity could cope on dry land. Or could it? I wasn’t sure how deep the Channel went, or whether the municipal cleanup efforts had made it any more inhabitable than it used to be, but maybe proximity to water was why we were all here. Sort of? I was still waiting for someo
ne to tell me why Sandor was being restrained and plopped in front of me as some kind of warted, tusked bait.

  “Now that I have your attention.” The voice was deep enough to rattle the windows I hadn’t noticed before. “We have been hired to locate a certain Gustav Lazzuri on behalf of our clients.” Was that a British accent? It sounded almost there but with a weird twist at the end. Definitely not Scottish or Irish—those I’d recognize. Welsh maybe? And who was this “we”?

  “Huh?” I could fake it till I make it, but then I’d have no idea what was going on.

  “We wish you to locate this Gustav Lazzuri.”

  “Oh.” Oh. “So why are you playing squeaky toy with my boss over there?”

  “We had hoped,” the thunderous voice intoned, “that he would share this Gustav’s location with us. However, he proved less than helpful.”

  I could only imagine what that meant in Sandor terms.

  “Why her?” Sam spoke up finally. “What makes you think she can help?”

  “Well,” the voice boomed. “This beast did try to kill her.”

  I checked my feelings. Gus was an asshole, and had pretty much vanished since Alina had ripped open a hole between dimensions to try and pull some of her more terrifying buddies through. That he’d switched sides at the last possible second, thank you Anshell, didn’t mean I trusted him. But he was still Sandor’s brother. And Sandor was my friend, even if he also happened to be my boss.

  The good news was that I had no idea where Gus was, nor did I particularly care as long as he wasn’t gunning for me. The bad news was that I doubted Sandor would give up his (half) brother anytime soon—even if Sandor did know where the prick was hiding out.

  “So why am I going to help you exactly? Lazzuri and I aren’t what you’d call friends.”

  “Yes,” the voice replied. “However, you and this demon here do seem to share some kind of relationship, the nature of which matters exceedingly little to me at this time.”

  “My boss.” See? I could be helpful. I was a helper. OK, maybe that was an exaggeration given the current context. “He pays me, and I like being paid. Is that what you mean?”

  “We found your number in his contacts list. You were the only one to respond to our call.”

  Seriously? That pic had been sent to more than just me, and I was the only one who cared enough to do something? I thought about it—maybe I hadn’t seen Sandor hanging out with buddies so much at the Swan. But I’d always assumed he had a life outside of the bar. Even if I’d never seen it for myself. Could I have been wrong?

  “Oh.” Because I had to say something, and I had no idea what else to say. Where were the words for geez, I’m sorry you’re so lonely that nobody else was willing to come to your rescue? “Um.”

  Coolness at my back; I shivered at the sudden temperature shift.

  “Let us discuss terms,” Jon said. “In exchange for this human’s assistance with your assignment, please confirm what you are prepared to offer.”

  “We won’t kill this beast.”

  “Is there a reason you would have killed him had we not shown up?” Jon’s voice gave nothing away, as cool with reason as his body temperature on a vegetarian diet. As long as he didn’t drain the vegetarian.

  “Well,” said the voice I was at this point assuming was attached or at least related to the tentacles in some way. “No, not exactly. Not our style. But it did seem a reasonable way to motivate the female to help us.”

  “Next time, try calling,” I said. “Also, I have no idea where the big blue ass is. So how about you let Sandor go and we call it a night.”

  “Certainly,” it replied. Barely a hesitation. “However, while you’re here...” Another tentacle appeared, coiled in the corner; I hadn’t noticed that we weren’t exactly alone in the warehouse. It loosened enough that I could make out the head, the shape of a mouth gaping open and closed as eyes stared out; blind, wild. As familiar as the ones I saw in the mirror every morning.

  The fuckers had my mother.

  Chapter Three

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Sure, I could panic. There was a definite sense of how-do-I-breathe-again about the whole situation. And maybe I was counting to ten in my head as I clenched my nails into the inner flesh of my palmed fists, visualizing each and every one of my weapons and which one I was going to reach for first. Didn’t know how to neutralize this kind of tentacle—did you cut it off or just hack at it until it unfurled?—but for once my inner what-the-fuckness was overtaking any residual frozen-in-place-thank-you-past-trauma. You mess with my mother, you get to deal with me.

  That buzzing. I thought it was my blood pressure rising with my intense need to kill something. Until Sam gave me a nudge, pointing to my pocket. Oh. My phone.

  I gave him my best let-it-go-to-voicemail look, but he shook his head. Maybe he thought it was important. Fuck. Fine.

  My eyes going wider when I saw who it was on the call display.

  “Uh...hello?”

  “Hi honey! I’m so glad I caught you.” My mother? I eyed what looked like the woman who birthed me as I followed the sound of her voice, my phone sliding hot against my ear. “We’re still on for brunch tomorrow, right?”

  I nodded; realized she couldn’t see me. “Yeah,” I said. Because sure, why not.

  “And don’t forget to bring that beaded purse I loaned you for Rachel and Matthew’s wedding last year. I have a thing coming up and it’s the perfect piece to go with my outfit.”

  “Sure.” It was definitely my mother on the phone. So who, or what, was I looking at right now? “See you tomorrow.”

  Disconnecting didn’t help—much. I walked over to where my other mother was supposedly tentacle-imprisoned. Leaned in and took a breath that filled my lungs with humid air and my nostrils with seaweed and dinner and residual compost mixed with sludge water. Nothing that smelled of norm. Nothing that was like me.

  I glanced over at Jon, then at Sam, before looking straight ahead again. Held out my index and forefinger, stiff, and reached up to what I could touch—my mother’s calf as it dangled, helpless, from below the rows of suctioning cups embedded in purplish-black flesh. No longer doubting that this was a trap. The question was what would trigger it.

  Goose bumps skittering across my forearm; I shivered. Crumbling roses and vanilla and earth. Jon.

  “Let me,” he said. I took a step back, grateful.

  Jon’s arm was a blur as he reached out to grasp my “mother’s” ankle and yank it down. I couldn’t help it—I yelped, as though it really was her and what Jon was doing would cause pain. Sam’s hand was hot against my shoulder and he squeezed once, reminding me to be strong, biting back against the screaming in my head.

  There should have been flesh. The caterwauling I’d thought was coming from me pounded against my ears, and I had to raise my palms to flatten them against the noise I couldn’t bear to hear. Whatever it was, there was pain. And, as Jon squeezed harder, an explosion of ashen dust.

  The suction cups detached, the flesh they were supposedly attached to becoming fluid and more gelatinous. I had a sudden image of an oversized Jell-O mold filled with the purple crystals mix, not quite enough to make it solid, not quite enough time for it to cool and take shape. Yet somehow it had convinced me that my mother was here.

  I turned. Sandor was still wrapped in a similar tentacle; I wondered if it was part of the same whole that had pretended to have my mother, or whether it was somehow more solid. Only one way to find out.

  This time I slid my favorite dagger out from the sheath tucked inside my boot and balanced the hilt against my palm. Dangling, not gripping, though that could change in a heartbeat. Thank you new and improved shifter reflexes. Even though I’d been no slouch of a norm before either—my years with the Agency had underwritten the mo
tion of my muscle memory.

  “Let. Sandor. Go.” Each word, enunciated with precision.

  “Will you help us?” The voice was everywhere at once now.

  “No,” I said. “You’re seriously pissing me off here. You want my help? Next time ask nicely.”

  “Niceness is a human construct. We need you to do something for us, and retaining possession of your overlord is how we ensure you do as we’ve asked. Next time we will be less polite with our offer.”

  There was an offer?

  “I’m getting a very do it or else with a vague but threatening else vibe here. So I’m going to decline your polite ultimatum and bid you a good evening while my friends and I—all four of us—take our leave. Got it?”

  “Money.” A second voice, belonging to a creature more squid than oversized land-loping octopus, with feet and arms in addition to the requisite suction-cup-covered streamers. Somewhere to my left. Was that a black straw fedora he was wearing? “Name your price.”

  I stared at him. This was a job offer? Sure, why not—my life wasn’t weird enough already.

  “Thank you. No.” There was nothing to think about. Even if I could use a little extra bank now and again, this entire situation was too damned weird. “Will you release my friend?”

  “So sorry, luv,” said the sharp-dressed demon. “No can do.”

  My blade barely caught the light before it was winging its way towards Fedora Squid Guy’s head. I should have known; with eight tentacles, it was nothing to swat the weapon out of the way before it had a chance to get close to its target. But it was enough to distract him, giving Jon time to streak behind the demon and whip its head around. There was a loud cracking sound as the vampire snapped the cephalopod’s neck. Did it even have a neck? It certainly crumpled fast enough.

  The larger of the beasts seemed unamused by our assault, and another tentacle as thick as a century-old oak tree and probably as long snaked out to swipe us off our feet. Almost nailed us too. Except for the part where Jon was now crouched and balancing on a rafter crossbeam with me in his arms, while Sam had shifted into a lynx-sized orange-and-white-striped feline with claws out and tail twitching.