Betrayed by Blood

by Beth Dranoff

  “Let me down,” I whispered.

  Jon shook his head. Sure, I was outmatched by this giant octopod creature. And? The last time that stopped me was...?

  “Seriously.”

  He shook his head again, peering over me to check on Sam’s progress. What was he doing down there anyway?

  I followed the sound of growling; realized Sam had attached himself to the massive ropey mass holding Sandor down, wrapping himself around it and digging in first with his claws and then his teeth. My boss wasn’t sitting around and being all Rapunzel about waiting to be rescued either, and I saw one of his massive fists finally work its way out of the vise that had loosened in the distraction of Sam’s attack. Those curved talons could do serious damage. A fact I’d never realized before I saw them shredding ribbons in the surface flesh of Sandor’s should-really-be water-based captor(s).

  “So, what, this is a spectator sport?” I wriggled in the steel bands of Jon’s arms. This was ridiculous—since when did he get to use that preternatural vampire strength on me, especially without my permission? “We have to help.”

  “They seem to be doing fine.” There was a thud as Sam was whacked against a nearby wall. “Choosing their own battles.” A roar as Sandor’s head was lifted to thwack against the beam nearest us. His three eyes full of fury on the way up, with the bottom two shifting to unfocused on the way down. “Doing as well as might be expected.”

  “Come on.” I did my best to rotate my head to look up at Jon. As though maybe that could impart the urgency of my need for action. “If you don’t want me involved, how about you do something.”

  Jon gave a pointed look at our current location, inclining his head to underscore the part where he’d removed me from danger and therefore already contributed greatly to making the situation better. I stared right back. Seriously? At this point, Jon was being purposely obtuse in a childish attempt to let Sam get a little beat up. And here I’d thought we were all good with sharing our toys. As long as nobody called me Doll. “Jon? Are you going to help like you promised or what?”

  Jon managed a sigh of elegant acquiescence. “As you wish,” he said, settling me onto the beam and releasing his grip before dropping into the fray.

  Priorities: Jon launched himself at whatever was about to smash my boss and friend into yet another hard surface, with one hand wrapping around the suctioning limb while the other snaked back and found the Wakizashi I’d loaned him—a shorter version of the better-known curved Japanese Katana sword—strapped across his back. What can I say—I’m almost Boy Scout-esque these days with the always being prepared.

  While Jon slashed at a portion of the animated flesh still gripping Sandor, Sam was doing the same with his claws. One down, seven possible more limbs available with time to do...do what? I was guessing nothing good.

  Bobbing my heel in time with a beat only I could hear. Damn, I hated being on the sidelines of a fight. Any fight. Because, what, I was too dainty and ladylike to pitch in? This all felt a bit too archaic for my tastes, especially with all three of the guys down there fraying it up being actually important to me. Sure, Anshell had drilled it into my head that I was something special, the exact nature of which was still to be determined. Not to take any unnecessary risks until we figured out why I was such a recurring theme in most things supe and ritual-like. But Bubble Wrap Girl wasn’t one of my nicknames. What if something bad happened down there and I could have prevented it?

  * * *

  Beyond the ruckus, highlighted by the moon hanging low in the inky-black sky, I saw something pale and mottled rising up to the window directly ahead of me. I would have thought it was the moon itself if it didn’t have two eyes the size of my ass, an even larger beak, and was staring directly at me.

  What the...?

  An involuntary response; I twitched and glanced down and away from the Big Scary Head. Wait, hadn’t there been a fedora-wearing squid guy there a few moments ago? Could have sworn I’d heard its neck snap. But was that even a thing with squids, come to think of it? That sound could also have come from a rotted board breaking, or even an auditory fake-out from source or sources unknown. Either way, there was suddenly another player on the confined space field and the guys didn’t know it.

  A fedora-shaped shadow fell across Sam’s back, and there was no more time to debate my princess-on-a-mattress-covered-pea status, no thought about what I had to do. I took a deep breath, relaxed all of me as much as I could, and then dropped onto the creeping cephalopod before he could do anything to my man in fur.

  Squid Guy swatted me off and I flew directly at Sam. At least my landing was soft. He saw me coming and, faster than I would have thought possible, managed to detach himself from Sandor’s source of ongoing captivity to duck under my body in motion. If Sam wasn’t such a solid and substantial beast, I might have felt guilt at our collision. But he was, and instead I shivered at the energy sparked by our propulsion-intensified contact as he wrapped himself around me.

  I allowed myself a few precious seconds to inhale Sam’s scent, cinnamon and sunlight tickling my nose. Then I gave a nod and we rolled away, him renewing his efforts to free Sandor and me to spin around and face the not-as-dead-as-planned Squid Guy, sliding my Indian Talwar sword curving out from the scabbard strapped against my back and pointing it into my personal dance space.

  The convenient thing about a Talwar is that it works great on both flesh and bone. A theory I was able to test by feinting towards Squid Guy, backing him up further and away from Sandor, before spinning and slicing down into the limb still pinning my boss in place.

  It worked. Well, partially—the thing gushed turquoise, coating my arms up past my elbows and spattering Sandor’s face as it gaped and dangled, half on and half off. But it was enough of a start for Jon to finish it off, his sword back in its scabbard before he ripped the remaining attached portion of limb down with a single yank. Yes. That would be Jon and his bare hands.

  The crazy part was that the limb did not stop fighting. It kept smacking at us with an autonomous intelligence that had me looking for a second head and maybe a set of eyeballs. Also there was that blue stuff. Like I’d rolled in a vat of paint that coated breath, sweat and things that trickled down the back of my neck. Insulation. Because I needed to seal in that Toronto-in-June body heat right about now.

  “Snorfling smeg of a limbermeister guzzle-gaffling florg!” A finally free Sandor lifted one of his size fourteen feet and slammed down the heel on a wriggling bit. “Dana, your sword.”

  It was kind of like handing a toothpick to an elephant, but what the hell. I could get behind Sandor taking out some of his overflow aggression on his captors if it meant we all got out of here faster.

  Plus, the limb would regenerate. Assuming the demon octopi form came with any of the same nifty features the ocean-dwelling ones did.

  While Sandor made sushi for a hundred from the flesh of our temporarily vanquished enemy, Sam shifted back to human again. Jon stayed closer to the door, watching Sandor while tracking whatever else might be ready to join in on the fun and even out any odds currently in our favor. I blinked and the Fedora Squid Guy was sliding up behind me, shielded from the hack-n-fray by my torso. He slid a black card with purple ink into my hand.

  “Call me when you change your mind,” the squid said. The card read Squid D’Lee, Esquire and included both a cell number and an email address.

  “No hard feelings?”

  “My feelings are hard,” Squid D’Lee replied. “But this is business.”

  Chapter Four

  There were still some patrons hanging around by the time we got back to the Swan Song. Nobody had called the cops when Sandor vanished, and nobody seemed too surprised to see us drag our sorry asses back through the door either.

  Nice supe community. See no evil, hear no evil, report no evil to the authorities. Should
be on a sign somewhere.

  It’s not like it was usually too busy by this time; logical, given that most of our clientele had to get undercover by the time morning sun clawed its way up the horizon. Plus we were into the month-long lead-up to Toronto Pride celebrations, a.k.a. even more parties and late-night fun than usual. Jon had bailed once we safely cleared the waterways with Sandor, and even Sam had left to report back to Anshell. I had no idea why Sandor was bothering with his newly extended hours, but I wasn’t going to complain—much—if it got me more shifts.

  Still, he’d never worried about the brunch crowd before. Before all the fun. Before the gaping maw of lakeside portal was opened. Sandor had never even attempted to blend in and be like the norms.

  That he was a six-foot-five-inch-tall demon with mottled tree-frog-green skin, curving tusks of pylon orange curving up from under his cheekbones, a drunken pyramid of three eyes over two rows, and a long tail of palm-sized plated scales skewering out might have had something to do with it.

  Sandor waved to the guy covering for me in my time of faked-illness need, the bartender-alternate Derek, and put in a drink order for us on his way to the back kitchen to fix us some snacks. Hey, it was 5 PM somewhere right?

  We’d gone on a mini-hiring binge after Alina opened that inter-dimensional gateway, however briefly, four months ago. Hazard pay was up, but without it Sandor might have had to go out of business already—word was out, and nobody was willing to work server minimum wage for the hassle. Sandor may not have been grabbed before, but it wasn’t the first time the Swan Song had been targeted in the last few months. Too much to hope that it would be the last for a while too.

  Damn, Sandor was a good cook. I munched on my fries with a side of something breaded and deep-fried—could have been a carrot but was more likely in the tastes-like-chicken/don’t-ask-what-it-really-is category of the food pyramid. He’d made himself a basket of sweet and sour breaded Surimese Flamigal newt eyeballs—still twitching, which was pretty impressive what with the hot oil and all. Guess we all have a desire to live past the point of reason.

  I tried not to wince as Sandor crunched away. Grateful that if they were screaming, it was on a wavelength I couldn’t hear even with my heightened shifter senses.

  “So,” I said, taking a sip of my own virgin blue lemonade. “Gus, eh?”

  “What can I say?” Sandor sighed, his corkscrew nostril hairs quivering on the exhale. “He’s an asshole, but he’s also my brother. Can’t pick family.”

  I lowered my voice so the stragglers closest to us couldn’t—hopefully—hear us.

  “And you have no way of reaching him? Really?”

  Sandor narrowed two of his three eyes at me. Suspicion, thou livest in the multiple visual orifices of my demonic overlord. The third eye, the one on top, fluttered its boredom and rolled itself a lot. It was almost like looking at a human teenager. Almost.

  “Who’s asking,” he said, lowering his voice to a bare rumble. “You or your pack master?”

  I almost snorted out blue liquid mixed with fry-related chunks at that. Grabbed a napkin and blew my nose to dislodge anything already on its way out while tears of laughter threatened to undermine my tough-girl look, sending streaks of liquefied liner dribbling down my cheeks.

  “Sandor,” I said finally, when I could talk again without choking or horking. “In the entire time you’ve known me, have I ever come close to calling anyone Master? In public?”

  Maybe I laid it on a bit thick. Truth was, I had way too many rules to follow now that I was affiliated with the Moon with Seven Faces Pack. Sure I got the logic, sort of. But there were reasons I’d left my super-secret government job for the rewarding career path of bartending.

  Rule number one of the new order? Don’t do anything to undermine the safety of the Pack or its Alpha, Anshell Williams. There were a bunch of regulatory subsets to that, like keeping one’s nails filed between shifts and swearing a blood oath and something about avoiding green hats in combination with pink and purple ribbons, but Safety First was the big one.

  I waited for Sandor to say something cuttingly sarcastic to undermine my position and bolster the rationale for his suspicious stance.

  “OK, fine,” he said instead, finally. “You’re right. You are a lady who doesn’t follow anyone. Not even me.” Sandor muttered the last part under his breath, sotto voce, but of course I heard.

  I pretended I hadn’t.

  “Listen,” I said, to fill up the silence. “I might not mind a bit of plausible deniability on the Gus front, but apparently I’m not the only one wondering where he is. Also I’d kind of like to get out of the way before he tries to kill me again.”

  “Said he wouldn’t. Said he was done with all that.”

  “And you believe him?” Try to kill me once, shame on you. Try to kill me twice, shame on me for being anywhere close enough to you to give you that chance.

  “Maybe,” Sandor said. “I wouldn’t go turning your back on the guy though. Just in case. I may not always be around to watch it for you.”

  The guy at the bar I’d thought was passed out raised his head. Swiveled it around—maybe he was looking for a refill? When nobody poured for him, he waved a thick hand at us, turquoise-blue scales shimmering with edges of orange and hot pink and deep jewel-toned purple, scrabbling its reverse-French manicured nails against the wood paneling. He looked vaguely familiar. I glanced at the general eye-ish area of its face, then away again.

  “What?” I channeled bright assed and bushy toed automatically, even though I wasn’t officially working tonight. Big mistake.

  A large eyeball—approximately pool-ball sized—occupied the entire top-third portion of what could loosely be called its skull. Especially once you factored in the lid and various optic-related musculature. The central orb, black in the middle, was surrounded by an octagonal iris with intersecting, overlapping triangles of color that mirrored the paint palette of the scales on its hand. Each facet winked at me, reflecting my own surprise and demonstrating more clearly than I was comfortable with just how much of a poker face I don’t have.

  Where the hell had Derek gone now?

  “Oi! Barkeep!” The sound came from an orifice with nesting rows inside rows of teeth encircled by raw-liver-toned lips. “Another drink if you please?” His eyes like tendrils of rolling ick from my head down to parts lower and more covered. “Make it something sweet, like you.” Double ick.

  “Sandor?”

  “Sure,” he said, distracted by something on his phone. “Why not.”

  Maybe Derek had gone for a smoke. Perhaps Sandor wanted to get a good online review even after last call. Either way, apparently I was going to make an exception for something liquid and double-digit proof.

  I scanned the arrayed bottles. I was thinking something sweet, blue and of the still-wriggling worm with candied cherries variety. There. Back row on the left: a 1978 Chablis de Cafard Caramel Sacrebleu. Loosely translated: Chablis of Damned Caramel Cockroaches. Perfect.

  I held up the bottle to Sandor and he nodded his approval. Then turned back to flip over a fresh glass and mix up the drink.

  From one eye-blink to the next, Teeth Boy reached over the bar to snag one claw into my belt hook and yank me back. I yelped my surprise and tried to hit out as he dragged me away from the bottles and my potential sources of immediate defense. The backs of my knees hit the edge of the bar as he pulled me down towards him into an off-balance, backwards hug, and I felt tendrils curling down from his ears to interlace themselves with the dark, shoulder-length curls on my head. Almost outside my body for a moment as I noted the streaking trails of red I had painted, woven through my otherwise espresso-brown hair, reflected in the mirror beyond the bottles.

  I tasted blood. Had I bitten the inside of my cheek by accident? I needed to regain control of my limbs and kick this slime ball�
��s ass.

  “And just where do you think you’re going with my employee?” Sandor’s voice boomed through my numbed ears. “She is not for sale, and she most certainly is not a gift with purchase. I advise you to release her. Now.”

  When our Patron of Aggressive Unwanted Advances growled without moving, he was lifted by the skull and shaken by gnarled green troll hands until I was suddenly released. There was grunting and possibly some blood spurting from off to my left while I slumped against the wood paneling of the bar and waited for the room to stop spinning.

  “Sorry,” said Derek, extending a hand and pulling me up again. “Was taking out the garbage.” He peered down at the pile of twisted limbs under the bar. “What is that?”

  “Dunno,” I replied. “Never seen one before.”

  There was something satisfying about seeing my would-be attacker in a motionless puddle. Anyone who’d been sitting close to him (or her?) seemed unamused though, drifting back and taking their drinks and snacks to elsewhere in the room, putting distance between them and the twitching limbs on the floor.

  I plopped down into the chair across from Sandor again and took a sip of my own drink. Yeah, that helped with the heart pounding and head spinning. A bit. I offered the other seat to Derek—it was the least I could do after he’d saved my ass—but he drifted back to the bar with a polite headshake, giving the groaning heap a wide berth on his way there.

  “So what do you think those guys want with Gus?” I watched as the recently prostrate patron dragged himself up and out.

  “Who knows?” Sandor flicked one of his curved orange cheek tusks with matching thumb and forefinger talon. An unconscious tic as his eyes flicked between me and the front door where Janey was trying to get the latest patron’s attention as what could have been a she drifted in and out of the shadows. “My brother is a master at pissing people off.”