Betrayed by Blood

by Beth Dranoff

  “A snicker snacker came skitter scatter. Tasty toasty fleshsicles with crumbs blowing here and there and making me hungry hungry more.”

  Celandra. Of course. Sandor had put the dragon lady on retainer to show up whenever the smoke alarm was tripped.

  She was looking particularly mismatched today with a turquoise-blue dollar-store special foam flip-flop on one foot and an almost identical magenta purple one on the other. The black of her feet, dirt worked into grooves and ridges of skin, contrasted with her outfit: a brown Lycra-stretch t-shirt about three sizes too small and rolling up into her stomach folds, under which she’d layered a mossy green tank top that over-stretched down to her knees and out way past the circumference of her hips. The mossy green part was a guess. At this point, it was more mud brown with cracks of what could have been baked ivy.

  I was relieved Celandra wore pants. Or something resembling lower-body wear coverage, despite alternating between orange and blue and yellow fluorescence that hung low in the crotch before going tighter around and below the knees.

  Too bad there was no way to hide her pungent it’s-June-and-hot smell. Didn’t dragons love the water? Then again, what with the fire and all, maybe not as much as I’d thought.

  Celandra opened her mouth and tasted the air around us.

  “Mmm.” She smacked her lips together, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “Demon dandy short and randy. Alina pepina macka Macarena.” Celandra did a pirouette while wrinkling her nose and flapping her hands like a person who thinks they’re a bird. “Frost demons too trickly now for Mistress so fickley.”

  Wait, what? Who was the fickle(y) mistress in this scenario. And did she just say Alina?

  “Greasy fix from rancid mix!” Celandra was clapping her hands now and kicking at the water with her toes. Glad someone was enjoying it. My skin was starting to itch from the ash and who knows what else I’d blown up with that frost-melting fire.

  “Would you like a straw?” I thought Sandor was joking until I saw Celandra’s eyes widen and her mouth pucker into a smiling O.

  “Yesssssss a straw to suck a straw to blow lookie lookie what’s below!” She bobbed up and down some more, somehow managing to skitter over the water while the rest of us got wet. Classic.

  Maybe Celandra would be able to suck back all the melted demon char in here using that candy-floss-pink curled straw she was squatting with over the murk. So far she’d been doing a lot of poking, slurping and belching. It was possible she’d be able to do it. But just in case, I’d better grab the ShopVac and a broom.

  I followed the sound of Janey’s raised voice towards the back. Maybe she was talking to Derek?

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed what’s been going on around here.” I heard a muffled grunt from Derek. “I know she and Boss Man are tight, but come on. Wherever she goes, there’s trouble.” Another grunt.

  “Sandor’s decision. Not ours,” Derek said.

  Janey huffed.

  “And what the hell,” she continued, her voice rising. “Who took my smokes?”

  I dipped into the doorway, fishing both cigarettes and lighter from my front pocket.

  “Sorry,” I said, handing them over. “It was for a good cause.” At least Janey had the decency to look away. But then she met my eyes after all and I wished she hadn’t; polite if not exactly warm, her tough scowl warred with fear—of me, and of the baggage that could show up with me at any time.

  I was surprised, but not as much as I probably should have been. People are who they are. Janey couldn’t say what had changed about me in the last few months—that information was on a need to know only—but she knew on a gut level I was different.

  “Thanks for the smokes,” I said, grabbing one of the wide-bottomed, black-bristled brooms from beside the door and the ShopVac. “See you back out there.”

  Janey gave me a long look and nodded. Derek did the chin bob, acknowledging but not engaging.

  So much for the lasting bonds of work friendships.

  I smelled the acrid char of a match being struck, followed by the prickle in my nose and the way my chest clenched from the smoke of Janey’s cigarette. Sandor wasn’t one to let anyone light up inside, but given that the air was filled with burned and flaking demon bits, really, what was a bit more to choke on?

  Celandra let out a loud burp that lasted a full forty-five seconds (I counted) as I walked back into the main bar area. Clearing space for more? Since the water levels hadn’t gotten noticeably lower in the time it’d taken me to get the broom, I used that broom to start pushing the sludge out the front door. Swish and push, swish and push. Still slow going, but at least I was doing something to help. My mind churning with each rush of water I shoved out the door.

  Another attack averted. And for what? We didn’t even know what they were after, and desiccated piles of mush tell no tales. Janey wasn’t wrong though. Chaos did seem to have me on speed dial these days.

  The air over my shoulder moved, prickling along my spine and the back of my neck; Anshell. My nose twitched as my fingers started to lengthen and sharpen in response. No. This wasn’t the time for show-and-tell; I shoved my hands into the pockets of my pants to make sure.

  Anshell filled the space with his energy without needing to say a word. He simply was.

  My chest clenched then, followed by heat that craved something, someone else. Sam. He shadowed Anshell in surveying the bar’s damage, before scenting closer to me, checking for any injuries. As though I was his mate? And yet—

  “I’m fine,” I caught Sam’s hand in my hair as he lifted it up, making sure my head was still attached to my neck. Even though I reeked of smoke and grease and the char of melted demon bits. My breath catching as we made contact. Even now. Even still. Even though Jon. “I’m fine,” I repeated, covering for the shakiness. “You should see the other guys.” I pasted on a grin, cockier than I felt.

  Sam let me have my pride.

  “I can see that.” Sam grinned as he made a show of brushing grey soot flakes off my shoulders and into the puddled floor below. There was a scar on the back of his right hand from the time he’d been skewered with a trident prong; another one on his left forearm where he’d been sliced open by a Jangmuth demon’s poison-tipped claws. Sam had almost died. Fingers that knew how to touch that part of me, down deep, when we were just us and clothes were scarce.

  My breath caught and I had to look away. It was either that or find somewhere private—now.

  Raised my eyes to find Anshell watching me. I realized, as his energy spiked, that equine might be only a fraction of what my Alpha was capable of given the right motivational nudge. Something with sinew and scales and something that was else.

  I filled Sam and Anshell in on the attack at the Swan. Broad strokes only. I skipped the part where I had a panic attack. Who would that nugget of psychological turd-stacking knowledge benefit? Not me, not now. But the projectile sentient ice bricklets, our collective defense and Celandra’s claim that Alina had been behind it—that was shareable.

  “Do you find it at all curious that you are still alive?” Anshell’s voice was mild. I knew what he was doing. Suggestion that led you to the conclusion he could see even if you weren’t there yet. That’s OK. He knew you’d show up once you followed his trail of mental breadcrumbs. “Why do you think the Swan was attacked?”

  “I have no idea.” Sharper than intended. Until I realized. “Oh. Shit.” Understatement. “Alina? What if it was a test?”

  Chapter Seven

  “See you at the meet later?” Sam’s voice was casual, but I’m pretty sure there was an element of I-don’t-want-you-out-of-my-sight-for-long-so-I-can-keep-you-safe to it.

  “Uh huh,” I replied. Brain elsewhere as I replayed the details of today, thinking through the implications. Alina sending minions for me again,
and said minions testing the Swan Song’s defenses. Defenses which had fallen short and had gotten dangerously close to the edge of not quite enough.

  “We’ll have eyes on the Swan,” Anshell said, quiet. “You’re not alone.”

  “Uh huh,” I said again. Would Pack reinforcements have helped? I wanted to say yes but who knows. And what if it happened again? Would the Pack come if I needed it, what with my not being full status yet? I hoped I wouldn’t have to bet my life on that.

  “Want me to wait?” Sam. Being sweet. I squeezed and flexed my fists behind my back. Chafing from Pack life, its expectations and my place with the greater whole. Maybe a run wasn’t such a bad idea after all. If danger wanted to have words with me, danger would have to catch me first.

  I released my hands and reached up, pulling Sam towards me. His lips met mine before breaking contact, only to touch down again and feather their way along my neck. Oh. I could feel him everywhere, exposed, even the hairs on my arms standing up and reaching for him. Kissing again.

  I shivered.

  No. Space. I needed to breathe.

  “It’s OK,” I said, pulling away. Harder than I’d anticipated. “I’m good.”

  Sam stepped back and crossed his arms, my skittish self nothing new to him by now. Don’t spook the commitment-phobic female, especially with all that post-fight adrenaline in her system. Let her approach you.

  “Eleven-thirty at the Leslie Street Spit,” he said. “You know the spot?”

  I nodded, grateful. Most guys would have taken my come-hither-go-away personally by now.

  “Maybe,” I said. I needed... I didn’t know what I needed. Nothing. Something. What?

  A flash behind Sam’s eyes before the smile, now familiar, was back. All good. No reason for Sam to worry about me, wonder where I’d be or who I’d be up with later. Right?

  * * *

  Sandor called in reinforcements, who swore they could fix up the Swan in time for the bar’s afternoon re-opening. One of the benefits of having an all-acts-of-mystical-attack rider in your insurance policy. I should probably get one of those.

  With the emergency repair crew sent by the adjuster already on site, there was nothing for me to do but leave. Without pay, of course—Sandor and I might be friends, but I was still considered “casual contract” even after almost four years. I got payment for services rendered, plus tips. Period.

  I thought about heading over to the Pack house. Anshell had space for me if I needed my own room, and Sam had yet to kick me out of his bed if I wanted to be there. Not that we always made it to his bed, but maybe after...

  The glimmer of impending dawn stretched ahead and around me as I made my way through the heat-bleached yellow grasses whispering on the breeze. The city’s concrete and glass towers, with its murmurations of office workers pouring in and out during office hours, stood in abrupt contrast to the reclaimed nature of this area with its weeds, wildflowers and urban wildlife. As though peace and cubicle living were mutually incompatible existences.

  Kind of like normal reality and the one last winter’s bleed and feed ritual had pushed me into; the normality I’d left behind after Claude, Jon’s other lover, scratched me.

  Dana...

  My name whispered on the wind.

  Danyankeleh...

  My heart in my throat.

  I hesitated, slowing my steps but not stopping. Not yet.

  I heard laughter in snatched cadences drifting past. Could be partiers on their way into the brush, or maybe a beachside drum circle fire pit. I looked back over my shoulder but saw nothing.

  Dana...

  I whipped around this time, trying to catch whoever or whatever was there in my ear. Breath hot and lips dry. I tasted lemon and fish and sweet grass as my tongue curled in on itself. And I knew.

  You have something I want.

  “Get in line,” I muttered. To myself? Crazypants Dana, talking to herself and hearing voices. How many hours had it been since I slept again? My truck now twenty feet in front of me.

  Danyankeleh.

  A different voice. Layers and threads weaving together. So familiar.

  Run!

  My keys were out and jiggling in the lock, too long until the door opened; diving in, smashing down on the latch after me. Next time around I was getting remote keyless entry. Seriously. The new battery and replacement starter purred the engine to life and I reversed, spinning my rear tires and spitting gravel bits at whatever was behind me before slamming the gearshift into drive. A splat, and then a thud. Another splat, another thud.

  I glanced into my rearview mirror.

  Dark shapes, two that I could see, had attached themselves to my back window. I swerved, trying to throw them off.

  More thuds. I’d driven into a hailstorm of sticky, gelatinous crap. How many had stuck to my truck and how many had I managed to shake loose? I couldn’t tell.

  Boom. My entire truck shuddered and I skidded to a stop, spinning gravel. All I could see was translucent pink-grey flesh, veined threads of ashen blue and blackish-purple tentacles like dreadlocks trailing down from the amorphous mass blocking my view. Then stars, as one of those limbs smacked me in the face through my open window.

  I hissed, and the thing that shouldn’t be able to survive on water-free land paused, the follow-up to its appendage one-two counterpunch hesitating instead of knocking me out. My face burned and tickled as my adrenaline fight response shoved fur through my pores and whiskers from my cheeks. The shift coming on too fast. I’d gotten better with my control but not good enough. Oh shit. Shifting while driving would get me nowhere good—and fast.

  Forced myself to slow my breathing. I didn’t have to change. It was a choice. My fingers lengthened and my nails became claws with points that curved to press into my steering wheel. There would be marks later. My feet were still my feet—small mercies—so at least I could drive, foot to gas pedal, even as my steering ability was questionable. Got to try, right?

  From the corner of my increasingly night-vision-improved eyes, I caught the tentacled limb winding back for a follow-up smack, light-bulb-flash quick, to what I assumed would be my head.

  It was fast; claws out, I was faster.

  No thought—the arm closest to the open window ended in a paw, and that paw wasn’t taking the sea creature’s shit anymore.

  Whoa. Where did that come from?

  The limb pulled back, oozing greyish-green slime from its fresh wounds. I rolled up my driver-side window using both paws at once, clumsy and slower than I’d like; no choice, given that I temporarily lacked prehensile thumbs. But I was motivated. And stronger in my alternate form, even if I managed to keep the shift partial. I steered with the wheel wedged between my elbows, the skin of my inner arm tacky with sweat against the skin covering my rib cage, and wished I had air-conditioning that worked.

  I wondered what Sandor had been thinking when this thing came for him.

  I pushed the gas pedal to the floor again, or tried, even though I couldn’t see a damned thing. I didn’t care. Away was as good a destination as any, and I was betting that there was better than here.

  Funny. The last time I’d pressed on the gas it was more satisfying. And locomotive.

  I might as well be stuck in a snowbank. Wheels spinning, digging a hole of slick that only embedded me further into place; I could either keep on forcing the engine and burn it out, or I could take a break. Grey goo spread across my windshield. I tried to use my wipers to clean it off; the sharp resulting crack suggested something expensive. Especially with that burning smell. Did I just fry both my wiper motor and my truck engine?

  No. Happy thoughts. Or at least productive ones, as I shifted into Park and turned off the engine. It’s not like I was going anywhere, not with those tree-trunk-sized limbs draped across my truck. I know why the cag
ed cat yowls when trapped behind mutant sea-creature flesh. Frustration, baby.

  As good as my claws felt, flexing and retracting, there’s no way those nails would be more than a short-term annoyance for the thing sitting on my hood. What I needed was one of those blades I’d used earlier. If only I could get a good grasp on it.

  Not going to happen unless I shifted back to the shape where I had hands with four fingers and a thumb.

  Fur stroked against the inside of my skin, a purr in my still-human throat. Even in the confined area of my truck’s cab, staring deep-sea mortality in the suctioning cups, I wanted to slide back the seat and wrap myself around myself, naked skin to soft downy fur. All mine. I could let go and be. The yowled beginnings of a cat under a hot and confined reinforced steel roof.

  No.

  I tried to remember why I couldn’t give in to the back-arching, toe-curling, deep-down itch that could be scratched so easily if I just let self-control go. Fidgeting in my seat as my nerve endings sang a rousing discordant chorus of need and want versus should and could. A flash of Sam on my mind, the touch of his lips a sense memory on the side of my neck. Fur sprouting in the wake of his phantom kiss.

  Not helpful.

  Jon. I fixated on my undead other lover. The coolness of his fingertips, the dusky rose-cinnamon taste of him; the goose bumps his touch left behind, the ache of cool loss deep inside when he was gone. Always gone, until he wasn’t; wanting more but getting as much as he could give. Ashes to dirt.

  The pull of Jon’s chill cooled the heat calling to heat of Sam. Both extremes catching my breath in my throat. Fur tucking back into pores; curved claws softening and rounding to fingers; paws becoming palms.

  We seemed to be at a temporary impasse, the gelatinous on-land sea creature and I. The only proof I had that it was still alive was its pulsing flesh puffing up and contracting; I watched the fluid in its veins mirror the rhythm. What was it waiting for? Someone? Something? If so, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to meet whoever or whatever that was.

  What can I say? Call me anti-social.