Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Waiting to be struck down.

  The headaches, the down turn in my appetite. The lack of my love life.

  What love life?

  Credits are at least a tangible reward to the one skill I have in spades. I hunt the criminals by instinct. If Casper or the other enforcers knew that is what I do—Zero research—working by hunch alone, feelings?

  They'd perform an exorcism. It wouldn't be pretty. That's why I don't partner. And probably why I don't have any friends. They mistake my caution for indifference.

  When in realty, I'm profoundly lonely.

  My face tightens, my chin jutting out. “How much?” I enunciate.

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  I whistle. “Fireballs, I could retire,” I say with a wistful catch in my voice.

  Casper allows a small smile to escape. “Not quite yet.”

  But already the wheels are turning. I could pay for my small studio apartment in downtown. I have a view of the Big Sioux River. The water is my solace when sleep doesn’t come. Which is a lot lately. I know I need to visit medical. All enforcers are covered for their medical needs. But I don't want to show weakness as the only female in the entire sector that has to have her runny nose wiped. Or her ass patted.

  “Bring him in, Narah.” He taps the file of my next target and the sound is loud in his office.

  I move to open the file and Casper presses a fingertip against it. “No kill order on this one. But Narah.” His eyes bore into mine and I fight squirming. Casper has been the only father figure I've ever had.

  There were no daddies at the orphanage.

  “What?”

  “He's a level ten criminal.”

  Rape-murder-robbery-arson-fraud. I suck in a breath and let it out slow.

  Level ten is bad. Bad for the crimes they've committed. Bad for skill prowess. Level ten is a criminal that has committed all the biggies and also has lethal skills of defense.

  Just like my level ten skills. Let's hope mine are only offensively needed.

  I stand and Casper does too.

  “Narah,” he calls out when my hand is on the doorknob, “I'll be there for the discipline hearing.”

  I look away because I can't accept what I see in his eyes.

  Compassion.

  I close the door to Casper's office softly behind me. Mindful of the enforcersʼ eyes that follow me as I walk through our building.

  There's no comments about my sentence and how horrific it is. Not one word is spoken. The silence is absolute. The affirmation is absent.

  The world swallows me as I leave the office. I suck in a deep inhale and it sounds like a rattle.

  I look over my shoulder at the office sign that swings in the wind. Final Enforcement.

  The hostility of my co-workers follows me like a familiar friend on the drive home. Tears I shed in front of no one fall freely in the sanctuary of my vintage Mustang.

  My 1969 Mach 1 rumbles down the one way streets like a horse who knows its way home. All three hundred sixty of them under her spacious hood.

  I open my eyes wide, disallowing more tears. I have myself and that'll have to be enough.

  That's all there is.

  Chapter 7

  Narah

  I'm naked before my full length mirror, looking at my back from over my shoulder.

  A back that will be scarred for life in two and a half days.

  My eyes travel the length of my spine, taking in the elaborate tattoos that cover my body. I move to view my front, admiring my vibrant color choices for my ink. Especially the iris torso wrap in violet and white that seems to pulse as though alive to wind and finish at the base of my spine. Colorful skulls with black roses twine up my dominant left arm and a vine punches its deep forest green barbs around my neck in a choker necklace of delicate thorns.

  I don't look at the rest of me—my beat-up knuckles and feet from running, kicking and punching. Those things I ignore. I have tatted my body to make it beautiful forever. In the way I want it to look.

  I have no roots, so instead I wear them like a remembrance.

  I sigh, padding to my bathroom. I pour half a bottle of shampoo inside an unmarked new container and fill the rest with tap water. I shake the bottle and take it with me into my walk-in shower. I turn the hot tap on and stand under the spray until my skin stings with heat and slowly adjust the cold tap, tempering the hot water's scalding bite.

  I pour the diluted shampoo inside my palm and lather it slowly into my rows, hitting the scalp in between. I don't miss any area and thoroughly wash my scalp and all evidence of the weak shampoo away. I lather my body, hitting my still-perfect back with a soft bristle brush and catch my lower lip as it trembles, fighting another round of tears.

  I shut the tap off and step out. After ten minutes of hand patting my braids to partial dryness I lube my fingers with argon oil and run them over the light blonde corns. I shake my braids out and wash my hands with soap. Without looking in the mirror I knot all the braids at my nape.

  Tightly.

  None of the offenders can use my hair like a handle of destruction. If I was smart, like the other enforcers, I'd just wear my hair in a chopped style close to my head.

  But I like to flaunt that I'm a woman. Right before I Kick. Their. Ass. My colleagues don't razz me anymore, but stay away. I'd had to fight for every inch in the orphanage and I wasn't giving any ground away now.

  Our lifespan as enforcers is thirty years. I'm twenty-four now. Just a baby by today's standards. Casper had to fight to get my appointment as a bounty enforcer.

  I hang my head. Now he's fighting to keep me alive.

  I breathe through my self-pitying and step-by-step I build myself to hardness again. I will prevail.

  I don't normally wear makeup but brush my long eyelashes with a wick of brown mascara. Dark golden eyes with flecks of amber, sharply contrast to my pale blonde hair. My eyes water from the intrusion of anything on them. A swab of cherry flavored Carmex and I'm done.

  Clean as a whistle; soon to be covered in blood.

  I walk to the closet and slip into what I consider my enforcer garb. Tight jeans, tight T and expensive boots. I bought them for their tread, padding and ankle support. I pop down at the end of my bed and laboriously lace and tighten, lace and tighten. I wind the ends of my laces around the top and tuck them into themselves. Standing, I grab my small weapon's belt. All enforcers have them and our unique number is embedded in plain sight.

  I also have a chip behind my ear that clearly states what I do for a living. I don't fill my gun clip with manstoppers but hollow points are the modern equivalent and my small .45 Springfield will put a hole where I sight it. A comforting weight at my back for a left-hand draw, tucked in a custom slot.

  The last thing I do is go straight to my kitchen and shake out three ibuprofen tablets. I stare at the small rust-colored pills in my palm. I shake out one more and dry swallow all four.

  I can't think if one of my new headaches take hold. My stomach revolts immediately and I pour a small glass of milk, hoping it'll settle.

  Instead, my mouth tastes like ass.

  I scrunch my lips and move to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Most enforcers wouldn't take the time to clean up and get ready. They'd grab their belt and go, rolling out of the sack with bedhead and whatever last night's cat drug in and shat on them.

  Routine is a comfort to me. I like being clean. Ready.

  I grab my leather jacket off the hook by the door and my keys go in my pocket.

  The file remains behind.

  I've memorized the contents.

  I'm hoping not to kill Tahile Benzoi. But in my heart, I don't know if I can stop what might be ordained.

  Even if it means another lash.

  Chapter 8

  Aeslin

  “Three more blocks,” Edan says quietly and I nod in silent reply.

  I hear the faint rumble of a powerful engine in the distance. Fossil-fueled. I frown. There aren't many of those al
lowed anymore, a relic.

  Of course, I own one. Bought and paid for with vampiric bribe money. The greenies are only as moral as their pocketbook.

  “That's her,” Edan says.

  “Yes. Where's her target?” I ask.

  Edan makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “He's just a human. We'll dispose of him and take Narah Adrienne.” Edan shrugs his broad shoulders, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against his brain-activated binoculars. Vampires can see like felines in the dark but a mile out, a little help of the human persuasion is useful.

  “A violent human. Why they have a woman as an enforcer is beyond me.” My disgust must leak through my voice because Edan rolls his amber eyes, slightly reflective in the ambient light that reaches our dim hiding place.

  “She's a vampire inside a human shell. Narah is unique as all the hybrids are and would manifest more strength, speed, cunning and intuition than a mere human. She'd stand out.”

  I chuckle. “Aren't you a snob?”

  “Warranted,” is his droll reply.

  I grin. Edan makes no bones about his disdain for humans. They are simply a highly evolved livestock. Except in the case of the rare hybrid.

  Edan's cocky smile fades. “Got him.”

  A tall human male strolls past with seemingly all the time on earth. When in fact, humans are on borrowed time. Their lives doled out as though measured. I wrinkle my nose at his scent.

  Grease, human body odor and the smell of guilt—if there is such a thing—can be determined easily.

  What is not so easy is him walking around without a care. A wanted felon.

  Something seems off. My instincts fire off.

  Edan moves to stand and I catch his arm in a grip of steel. “I don't like this.”

  Edan's eyes narrow on me then shift to the human male. “This is Benzoi—her target, right?” he clarifies.

  I reply slowly, “He's wanted for everything and yet he walks around like a free man.”

  Our gazes lock.

  “Hunter,” we say in unison.

  *

  Matthews

  The blood of my ancestors runs like boiling oil, searing a path through my veins, though it doesn't burn.

  It's also critical to my longevity. Without it, I would not sense vampires are near. The primal warning system as part of my organic makeup is appreciated. I don't know exactly where they're hiding, but I feel their presence like a weight in the air.

  My acute hearing also picks up the thrum of an engine I'm trained to identify. I palm the box with the fluid that will kill Narah Adrienne's womb and her chance for turning.

  I force myself to relax, using a low whistle to mimic a casual posture, the clothes I borrowed off a homeless man should throw the vamps off my true scent, but with only an overcoat, it will barely be enough.

  The low vibration of her car kills a few blocks over and I know Narah Adrienne's on foot.

  I scan the darkness, wondering if I can get to her before the vampires. If they've sent their soldiers, the legendary Turners, some are immune to my spells.

  This mission calls for a delicacy that even a skilled Hunter might not be able to muster. It's me against them. And the expertise required to get myself in her sights as a target when I'm anything but.

  I hear stealthy steps and a young woman approaches, tightly braided hair is silvered by the moonlight as she reveals herself from behind the thick corner of a nearby antique stone building.

  “Tahile Benzoi,” she says in a richly melodic contralto. Her gun is naked in her small hand and I smirk.

  “Yes?” I ask with a sarcastic lilt.

  With a jerk, she sloughs her jacket off at the ground and runs toward me, gun raised.

  Mild surprise floods my senses. Feisty thing.

  I dump the reeking borrowed overcoat and it reveals my weapon's belt in all its glory.

  Narah Adrienne doesn't see it and launches herself at me.

  I harness my surprise for later reflection. I've underestimated her. She attacks like a man. Hard and fast—deliberate.

  However, I'm not here for her life. Only her fertility.

  Her hand comes down with the but of the gun against my shoulder. I grunt at the impact but my muscle mass saves me. I toss her behind me, using my momentum and she lands like a cat.

  Nine lives.

  We circle each other as I remove the slim case.

  Like throwing rice at a wedding I fling my free hand out. Pushing the magic from my core as I've been taught and hit her with my best spell. The simple ones are deceptively powerful—pure.

  “Stop,” I command softly.

  My power swirls, striking her like a velvet whip of heat and fire.

  Narah's eyelids flutter, her beauty is not masked by the elaborately plaited hair and many tattoos. She's beautiful even through the camouflage, and my soul cries out in defiance to deaden her fertility.

  It is necessary.

  Her head dips and she says in an angry voice, “Bite me, Benzoi.”

  My body stills in shock. Then the flash of a silver blade follows that of her eyes.

  I don't have time to be puzzled about the spell's lack of success when a pair of Turners spring from hiding.

  Chapter 9

  Aeslin

  I dive out from the shadows I use to camouflage us, racing against time and drive forward, Edan at my heels. The Hunter tells Narah Adrienne to “stop” in a voice full of magic and dark command.

  Magic washes over me, slowing my progress. It arrests Edan's.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, jerking a foot up and it falls back into place as though paralyzed.

  Narah says, “Bite me, Benzoi.”

  Not a normal Hunter then. This one has enough Druid to cast powerful spells.

  I'm partially immune, a common ancestor helping me ignore their power. Many Turners possess immunity. Edan is an unlucky one who doesn't.

  Narah's eyes round when she sees us.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Your salvation.

  I don't reply. My only goal is to grab her and get her to the Turn room for the change.

  The Hunter moves closer to her position. “For the love of all that holy,” Narah roars, going for the Hunter's throat.

  “No!” I yell.

  The Hunter swipes the side of her neck with his forearm. He expertly taps her vagas nerve and she drops.

  He catches her one-handed and tears the top of a syringe out with his teeth, spitting out the top onto the ground.

  It rolls to Edan's feet and he groans in frustration, frozen from magic.

  I move through the quick sand of the Hunter's spell and come to stand behind him.

  Tipping the syringe back he purges a small amount as he prepares to pierce her vein.

  Narah's eyes go wide as she comes around.

  She doesn't scream.

  Instead she stabs his throat with her knuckles and he chokes, but the needle goes in.

  *

  Narah

  I don't know what this guy is but he's more than a level ten criminal. Hell, he told me to stop and like a dog on a chain my entire body revolted movement. Any movement.

  Then I remembered my job and who I am.

  Defeat isn't an option.

  I shake off the lethargy with difficulty and the fog of his words thins. It feels like a veil has been lifted and I can breathe again—move.

  I get ready and two guys throw themselves out into the middle of the street.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I ask the lead one.

  I take my eyes off Benzoi and notice one of the two is standing still. Like stock-still.

  My eyes move back to Benzoi. Something is totally weird.

  The muscular guy doesn't answer me and now I have two to deal with. One mess at a time. I'll subdue the target and deal with tall, dark and deadly and his pal, almost-comatose.

  I go for Benzoi's neck with the butt of my weapon. It's my fave, take out the wind and the dudes fall flat.


  Instead, he nails my vagas nerve and unconsciousness sucks me under. It's only a moment. But that's all he needs. Seconds later I come to in his arms and immediately begin to fight out of his hold.

  He pops the top on a vial and liquid shoots out in a stream.

  Dread surges through me. I strike his throat with my knuckles as the tall guy comes up behind Benzoi and kicks him. Benzoi tumbles but not before he sticks me with whatever cocktail he has.

  The needle twangs from my forearm, sticking straight up.

  Drugs.

  I panic, trying to bat it off me and the tall guy moves in and a sudden headache slides into position.

  Not now!

  He scoops me off the ground and I punch him in the face. A fast hard strike. I'm not fucking around, he needs to be maimed so I can get out of here and not get shot up with whatever the hell's in that vial.

  It's like hitting granite and I bite my lip not to cry out, my hand feels like it's broken. He shakes his head like a bug bit him instead of a well-trained enforcer.

  Silver eyes regard me and I wince, grabbing my skull as shards of glass spin in my brain and I groan.

  He turns his head and his low baritone voice yells, “Edan! Come quickly.”

  Benzoi is getting up and I grab this man I can't hurt, who's sort of half saved me. “Get out,” my head hurts so bad I'm pretty sure I'm going to puke, “he's a criminal,” I manage.

  “Look at me, Narah Adrienne,” he says.

  He knows my name. Gooseflesh has its way with me, my body chilled. My skull feels crushed, Benzoi tried to poison me and this guy can take a hit.

  I'm vulnerable.

  He grasps my chin and turns my head.

  His eyes are mesmerizing. I try to shake his hold and look away and see Benzoi moving toward us.

  I gotta get out of here.

  My next move is a last resort but it's pretty effective. I lift my knee and plant it in his groin.

  Silver Eyes falls to his knees and I twist out of his grasp. Using my elbows I GI crawl to the sidewalk, casting a glance at the other guy, who seems to be moving fine. He and Benzoi lunge at each other and begin working their fists like experts.