B00T3PMJTS EBOK

by Tracy Tappan

  Faith blinked, then her stomach dropped. “Oh.” She ate the rest of her canapé in silence. “Where was you mother during all of that?”

  Nỵko considered a fruit canapé. “She was protecting me and my brothers, for sure, but there was only so much she could do.” He glanced up from the serving plate. “Have you heard of Oţărât?”

  “The neighboring town of bad guys?” It was a town full of demons, in reality, but that sounded too weird to say. “Underground here, too, right?”

  “That’s it. My brothers and I spent the first years of our lives there. A very nasty place, lots of violence.” Nỵko picked the fruit canapé and set it on his appetizer plate. “My mom used to wear these gloves, see, the knuckles sewn and glued with shards of broken glass and bits of metal. Anyone who tried to mess with her boys, she’d sock ’em a good one.” One side of his mouth lifted. “And with her Vârcolac strength, that was no small punch. The only person she never challenged was our dad. Maybe she thought it would ultimately make it worse for us. Maybe she knew she couldn’t beat him and was trying to stay healthy in order to keep an eye on us in other ways. I don’t know. But she shielded us from a lot of hassle, I’ll tell you, and in the middle of all that Oţărât crazy, she taught us to be good men. As best she could, at least.”

  “Well, it shows.” She smiled a little. Goodness, and she thought her childhood had been stressful.

  Nỵko’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Mom got us out of Oţărât, too, risked Lørke’s wrath stealing maps of the Hell Tunnels in order to save us. Too bad the heat of those tunnels disintegrated the maps, otherwise we could’ve gotten more people out.”

  Faith chose a caviar canapé. “Your brothers have the same tattoos. Does that mean…” she hesitated over the question. “They went through the same thing as you?”

  “Yes.” Nỵko exhaled a long-winded breath. “I tried to get them out of as much as I could. I’m the oldest, you know, so I can’t help looking out for them. Even today, I still worry about them sometimes. Despite our mother’s love, Jaċken came out a hard man. If Tonĩ hadn’t happened into his life, I don’t know what would’ve become of him. And Shọn…” Nỵko poked the fruit canapé around on his plate. “He…uh…” Nỵko trailed off again.

  “You don’t have to talk about him, if you don’t want.” Kacie had told Faith that Shọn was temporarily banished from Ţărână. Kacie hadn’t known what the man did to warrant that, but it must’ve been pretty terrible if this community had been willing to oust a Vârcolac to topside. They seemed very prickly about their anonymity and secrecy around here. For some reason, Kacie was fascinated by Shọn, or maybe just the idea of him, like she was harboring some fantasy of the Teague twins marrying the half-Rău Brun brothers.

  “Oţărât wasn’t fun for any of us,” Nỵko said. “But I think it was especially tough on Shọn. He…got lost, and I feel bad. I should’ve done a better job protecting him.”

  Faith felt her heart roll over. “You can’t save everyone,” she said softly.

  “I have to,” he said, completely serious. “I mean, look at me, Faith. Who else is going to do it, if not Big Nỵko?”

  She smiled gently. “I can kind of relate, actually. After my parents died, I shouldered all of the responsibility for parenting Kacie.” She coasted a hand over her bun. “And my Aunt Idyll.”

  A thin line appeared on the bridge of Nỵko’s nose. “How old were you when they died?”

  “Ten.”

  “Wow, that’s…shoot, that’s not good.”

  “No.” Pain pressed outward from her chest. “They say bad things happen to good people, though, right?”

  Wolverine suddenly appeared at their table. “Hey, guys.”

  “Hi, Dev,” Nỵko said. “What’s up?”

  Dev…yes, that’s right, Wolverine’s name was Dev.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Dev said. “But Ãlex just had a vision about the Symbol Killer’s next victim. Videön is taking out the dude in about an hour, so we need to go wheels up right now. Sorry.” He repeated, casting an apologetic look at Faith. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have cut in on your date.”

  “I understand.” Faith said. “If you have a chance to catch a madman, you need to take it.”

  Nỵko scooted out of the booth and stood. “We’ll pick up when I get back, okay?”

  “Absolutely.” She gazed up at him, dressed in dark slacks and a dark blue button-down shirt, looking so large and virile. Invincible. But nobody was invincible, not even the biggest Vârcolac on earth. She swallowed, struck by the sudden urge to kiss the top of his scruffy head. “Be careful, Nỵko.”

  His eyebrows shot up, then he smiled. “I sure will.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Topside: downtown San Diego, same night

  The Park Place Condominium complex sat at West Harbor Drive and Kettner Boulevard in San Diego’s swank Marina district, soaring thirty stories into the night sky. It was a ritzy-looking tower of sparkling lights and balconies stacked one on top of the other, zipping up every side of the structure.

  Not many stars were visible, blotted out by the power of the surrounding city lights, but the moon hung like a bulging eyeball off the building’s right shoulder. Across the bay, a US carrier hulked in port at the North Island Naval Air Station on Coronado. In the other direction, the city skyline spread out its arms, the view rendered distinctly San Diegean by the neon green lights circling the tops of eight skyscrapers: “Emerald Plaza,” as it was officially known.

  Nỵko lurked in the shadows of a parking lot on the south side of the condominium complex on West Harbor Drive. Dev, Thomal, and Gábor were stationed at the other three compass points around the building, their team maintaining full surveillance. Videön’s next victim, Samuel Preston, had an apartment on the sixth floor, but Ãlex hadn’t known which side of the sixth floor. It would’ve been nice if Ãlex had also been able to tell them why he’d had this vision; his future ones only came when the episode somehow involved the Vârcolac. But Ãlex had drawn a nada on that, so it was anybody’s guess what they were going to face.

  “Jay-sus,” Gábor’s voice crackled through Nỵko’s earpiece. “Who is this rich prick Preston, anyway? An astronaut or something? Knows the secret ingredient for converting dog crap into gold?”

  “Plastic surgeon, I think,” Dev crackled back.

  “Ho, hear that, Costache?” Gábor returned. “After we save this Preston guy from Videön, maybe he’ll offer you a freebie for that face of yours, transplant a few whiskers onto that girlie chin and rid you of some of your Barbie.”

  Nỵko heard Dev laugh. Blond, Mixed-blood Vârcolac couldn’t grow facial hair, and it was a constant source of ribbing from the black-haired Pure-breds who could.

  Oddly, Thomal didn’t shoot a comeback. He didn’t laugh, either, but that part wasn’t odd. Thomal didn’t laugh so much these days.

  “Heads up,” Gábor suddenly clipped out. “I’ve got six nut-fuckers doing the human fly up my side of the building.”

  “Damn, right on time,” Dev said. “Another gold star for our Soothsayer. Okay, everyone meet at Pavenic. Double-time.”

  Nỵko took off, running in a low crouch and staying close to the shadows. His sheathed knife lightly banged his thigh and his handgun pressed against his lower back as he crossed West Harbor and headed east up Kettner to Gábor’s position. He arrived first, a moment later, Thomal, and finally Dev, who’d been clear on the other side of the building.

  Dev narrowed his focus on the six black-clad forms swinging lithely from one balcony to the next up the side of Park Place.

  The bad guys were already at the third floor.

  Dev cursed. “They’re moving fast. We need to haul balls. Pavenic, you’re with me, Spider-Manning after them. Costache and Brun, main entrance. Meet us on the east side of the sixth floor. Whichever door the bad guys go for is our rendezvous point.

  Dev and Gábor disappeared.

  Nỵko sprinted across the s
treet with Thomal at his side. Adrenaline pounded in his ears as he slipped up to the main entrance and pressed his back against the outside wall, peering through the glass doors into the interior. More ritzy-looking stuff, with a floor done in shiny white tile, the middle decorated with a black geometric design, and a latticed partition wall that partially concealed a line of three elevators. To the left was a black grand piano, and the right, a…oh, no.

  A doorman.

  Spotting the man behind the desk at the same instant, Thomal glanced at Nỵko and made a face.

  Might’ve been smarter if Dev had sent Big Bad Nỵko up the wall instead of into possible public confrontations. Even not dressed in his current black-and-gray camo pants and black turtleneck sweater, he couldn’t go anywhere without being noticed and remarked upon.

  “That Costache charm everyone’s always talking about?” Nỵko whispered to Thomal. “Now might be a good time to put it to use.”

  Thomal exhaled an unhappy-sounding breath, but pushed inside the building, buttoning up his overcoat to hide the weaponry strapped to his body.

  The doorman came to his feet. “Good evening, sir. May I help you?” The man was clearly curious about the newcomer’s all-black attire, but Thomal did his job and plastered a magnetic smile on his face, keeping the guy’s curiosity from becoming anything more than mild.

  “Yes, thank you.” Thomal walked forward and slammed a fist into the doorman’s jaw.

  The man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he sank limply to the floor.

  Nỵko hurried inside. “What the heck was that, Thomal?”

  “You have a better way for me to get you in here?” Thomal shot back.

  Good point. “All right, let’s—”

  The elevator dinged.

  “Shoot,” Nỵko hissed. More people.

  Thomal chopped his hand at a spot behind Nỵko, indicating the other side of the piano.

  The lobby stairs!

  Nỵko flew up them, Thomal on his heels. At the top, they ducked through an employee doorway, finding themselves in an emergency stairwell. Racks and racks of metal stairs going up, up, up—six flights for them.

  Thomal growled. “This is taking too long.”

  No sooner had he spoken those words than the muted sounds of gunfire spilled down from high above. Dev and Gábor were already engaging the enemy!

  “Dammit!” Thomal blasted up the stairs, his Dragon speed immediately putting him two flights ahead of Nỵko.

  Nỵko followed at top velocity, running harder than he ever had. Careening onto the fourth level, he caught a glimpse of Thomal.

  The warrior had unbuttoned his coat and unholstered his pistol.

  Panting, Nỵko pulled out his own gun.

  Overhead another employee door opened and shut. Pounding feet rattled the stairs, heading down. Incoming bad guys. Another surge of adrenaline poured into Nỵko’s system, speeding his heart and rushing his blood. He caught sight of Thomal, rounding the last turn with his gun held straight out in front of him. Then he froze. Didn’t shoot.

  What is he—?

  The deafening report of a gun being fired roared through the stairwell.

  Blood spackled the wall by Thomal’s side and he was jolted back on his heels.

  Nỵko stopped, watching Thomal struggle to regain his balance.

  Thomal’s boots slipped.

  Nỵko shouted as Thomal tumbled butt over brainbox down the flight of stairs, the flaps of his overcoat slapping over the top of his head. His comm headset flew off and clattered down the stairwell, cartwheeling along steps, bouncing off handrails, plummeting into nowhere. At the bottom of the flight directly above Nỵko, Thomal hit the wall, his skull doing most of the hitting with a sickening crack.

  Nỵko yelled again, his chest on fire with rage. He thundered up the last stairs and leapt over Thomal’s still form, the scent of blood assaulting his senses. Whoever had shot his partner was about to get—

  He stopped so suddenly the soles on his biker boots made a rubbery fart sound. Gripping his gun in a hard fist, he blindly reached out his other hand for the support of the handrail. Now he knew why Thomal had hesitated, why he’d been too stupefied to shoot.

  A pair of black eyes glared at Nỵko over the snout of a smoking pistol.

  Nỵko knew those eyes. Thomal did, too.

  Shọn.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  In the six weeks since Nỵko had seen his little brother, Shọn hadn’t changed much. His mouth still shaped a permanent pout, his black hair stood up in spikes all over his head, and his black Om Rău eyes looked coated in a bright ceramic glaze. His body type was Nỵko’s exact opposite; where Nỵko was all bulk and bulges, Shọn was lean and mean. The youngest Brun was marked with the required teeth tattoos and, like Jaċken and Nỵko, wore them on his forearms. Unlike Jaċken and Nỵko, that was the only place Shọn was marked.

  Shọn’s upper lip tugged up, displaying one of his unnaturally long canines, as he continued to point his gun directly at Nỵko…and didn’t seem at all nervous about it.

  Nỵko let his own gun wilt down to his side.

  A police siren skirled its high-pitched woo-woo into the night, the noise drawing steadily closer. And another.

  The employee door above banged open. “Shọn!” a man shouted. “Take care o’ that cockhead, then leg it! It’s the fuckin’ bobbies!”

  Shọn’s nostrils quivered as he inhaled and exhaled.

  Down the stairs, Nỵko heard Thomal groan and stir. “Shọn.” Nỵko uttered his brother’s name in a rush.

  Shọn pulled the trigger.

  A bullet slammed into Nỵko’s right bicep, catching his muscle on fire. He bellowed in pain—bellowed in shock and anger. His fingers went lifeless, his gun clanking down the stairwell to join Thomal’s headset in the abyss.

  Shọn turned around and darted up the stairs.

  Teeth bared, Nỵko exploded after his brother, then checked himself at the employee door, pausing to do a quick glance into the hallway. No one. Stupid fast idiots. Nỵko stole down the hall. The door to apartment 6G was hanging woozily on one hinge, and he slowed his strides as he approached. Shọn and his cohorts had to have gone in here. Nỵko did another quick check. Clear. He entered and cautiously made his way across the living room, one hand gripped around the hilt of his sheathed blade. The blood from his bullet wound was seeping slowly down his arm, oozing past the ribbed cuff of his sleeve to trace his fingers then trail over his knife hilt.

  He swept the room with his eyes. The apartment was spookily quiet. There was only the intermittent creak of the front door behind him as it twisted in a breeze brought in from the open terrace. The noise ran up his spine. He skirted the edge of a wide puddle of blood at the far side of the living room, his fangs pulsing. Whose blood? Dang it, where were Dev and Gábor?

  He pushed the “speak” button on his headset. “This is Nỵko,” he said in an undertone. “I’m checking in. Where is every—?”

  “Freeze!”

  Nỵko spun toward the open doorway, and his pulse leapt forward a beat.

  A police officer was hunkered in the jamb, his black gun leveled at Nỵko two-fisted, his legs braced wide. “Drop your weapon!”

  Weapon? Oh, the knife. Nỵko carefully peeled his bloody hand off the hilt of his blade.

  “I said drop it!” the cop blared. “You’re under arrest.”

  Nỵko remained still and watched the cop. Jail was a no way, José option for their sun-allergic breed. Where to escape to…? His mind raced in rhythm with his heartbeat. He heard more people clomping down the hallway. Soon he’d be outnumbered. Now or never. He turned and leapt through the open sliding glass door of the terrace, catapulting himself into a handstand on the guard railing, then back-flipping over the other side into open air: a full rainbow arc, a perfect ten from the judges for the harrowing gymnastic maneuver. Now the question was: would he stick the landing?

  The Park Place building
whooshed by him as he fell through the night, down and down, lights and colors a messy whirl. His hair whipped into his eyes. He circled his arms and cycled his feet, all the while drawing in great lungfuls of air to harness the power of the moon. He hadn’t been topside in so long… A bolt of panic shot through him as the pavement rushed up fast to meet him. Come on… He blanked his mind, going into a near trance as he reached deep inside himself. His body thrummed. A bubble formed around him, providing buoyancy just as his feet hit the asphalt—hard. His ankles compressed painfully, but…he wasn’t dead. He stumbled forward a few steps, caught his footing, then shot a glance over his shoulder and up.

  The cop was gaping down on him from the sixth floor balcony, his handgun hiked back next to his ear, his entire face sagging as if pulled there by four G-forces of shock.

  Oopsy-daisy. Here’s hoping the guy is a heavy drinker.

  Headlights swiped across Nỵko.

  He leapt out of the way, but the driver chased after him. Nỵko ran, but his sore ankles bobbled sideways, and the car was able to catch up and ram him. He caught air, flew several feet, hit, and rolled across the street for several more feet, tearing the elbows out of his turtleneck. He sprawled to a stop onto his back, dizzied.

  Car doors slammed.

  A man’s face loomed into Nỵko’s vision. His mind registered: bad guy. But in the next breath, he knew he’d be okay. The man’s scent spelled R-E-G-U-L-A-R, and there wasn’t a human alive who could take him out.

  Nỵko moved to rise, but the man pushed him back down, the hand on his chest very strong. What’s this? Nỵko back-stepped his senses and caught it then. The man’s scent was sort of off.

  A fist rocketed toward his face and his lights blinked out.

  Nỵko popped his eyes open. Tied to a chair. Pain in right arm. Om Rău male nearby.

  He tabulated sights, smells, and sensations in 3.5 seconds.

  “Welcome back to the livin’, half-Rău.”

  The Om Rău male Nỵko had scented was standing directly in front of him, making it impossible to ignore the sheer size of him. Shirtless, dressed only in combat boots and tight black leather pants, the man was a towering fortress of muscle with the body of a heavyweight boxer, shoulders, arms, and chest bulging with thick, hard slabs, his abdomen striated. Black flame tribal tattoos whipped up the entire front of his torso, erasing all doubt that this was a Topside Om Rău. A lip scar tugged the man’s mouth into a sneer, adding more menace where none was needed. Lip scar…