by Marata Eros
I loathe a woman that discusses my wanker without foreknowledge. “You couldn't fake a British accent if your life depended on it,” I blandly point out.
She rolls her eyes. “Tough. I want this Mutable case. I don't need you. There's only four enforcers and I'm level ten. Casey is only an eight, and The Ghost baby's his ass because he's new.”
Our boss, Casper, doesn't believe in throwing everyone to the wolves. Not right off the start, that is.
I smirk, thinking about last year's client, Talyn Phisher, now mated to a Lycan and a dragon, of all fucking things.
Just another day in the menagerie.
“I don't see anything funny here, Murphy.” Her golden-amber eyes narrow within her sharp-featured face.
I tear a hand over my hair, my fangs giving a pangy ache. Hunger tears at my insides. Since I'm full vamp, I can't make do with human food any longer.
What I wouldn't give for a good pint of ale. I glance at Mollie's throat. Or blood.
“Not laughing,” I say, holding up a warding-off palm. “I was merely pointing out that when the supes get involved, circumstances becomes complicated. Casper's not going to clear you working without a mate.”
She glares down at the footprints between us.
I'm letting Mollie think they're Mutable but one pair of prints looks suspiciously prehistoric.
Like our friend the woolly mammoth. Noah or Jac? If the prehistorics are sniffing around—must mean there's a knot of potential females.
Final Enforcement doesn't worry its pretty little head about them. We don't involve FE in the new breeding squabbles and acquisitions for the most part.
But the Mutables have become a proven problem.
“Fine, you can help me, but I want credit for the case. Especially since bitch Narah is busy pushing out an animal baby.”
I instinctively hiss.
Mollie backs away. “What's your fucking problem?” The fear in her voice makes my dick hard. No need to rabbit on about that, though.
“I know you want Narah to bugger off, but the truth hurts, darling. She's flat better than you are.”
Mollie pouts. “That's your perspective.”
The only one that matters.
I begin walking back to my car, leaving her with the last word. Or words.
A fuzziness remains in my brain from the shitty bit of sleep during the last day. I've been plagued by random, vague dreams. Of a woman. The more I try to remember, the worse the nagging memories become like vapor in the catacomb of my brain.
Frustrating as fuck. I shake off the lethargy and survey my ride. Not as cool as Narah's vintage beauty, but in its own way, any fossil fuel car in existence is a rarity. This vintage Mazda Miata has been grandfathered. One of the perks of being an enforcer. I don't have to use the natural gas-fueled engines that came online for all new cars beginning in 2022. The media and forces that be carry on about how the wonderful natural gas emissions have decreased the carbon fallout to near-zero.
Nancys. Sometimes a gent needs to get after someone with something fast. Though I can really move now. Most criminals don't have the tools to deal with the likes of me and Narah.
Excepting those of the paranormal persuasion.
The pearlescent ivory paint of the Miata shimmers in the moonlight. When one can only go out at night, car color becomes important. I had a custom color overlayed on the creamy-white. In the dark the shade appears as though it's imprisoned moonlight.
I lick my lips. Hunger beats at me.
Got another dalliance with Bunny in the cogs.
Or Buffy? I frown then shrug.
I tap the thumb-sized, pulse sensor dock above the door handle. The car identifies me instantly, popping the lock and turning on the engine.
I hear footsteps behind me.
“Mollie,” I say turning, exasperated.
It's not Mollie.
Four Mutables surround me. My vampire hearing saved me, but was not acute enough to hear Mollie's attackers. She's on the ground and more bodies litter the area around her.
My nostrils flare. She lives.
Automatically my body begins to tingle as a call of blood goes out. Only one being will hear the specific summons.
Hopefully, Narah isn't in labor.
*
Narah
“Fuck!” I say, whipping up from the couch like a wooden plank. No small feat, given I'm so rotund, moving at any pace is a challenge.
I'm suddenly furious at being pregnant.
Rage-y.
“What?” Matthews says, setting down his blood bag on top of the acres of sleek granite countertop. My eyes snag the sustenance, a pang of hunger trying to assert dominance even over the call.
I meet his eyes.
“Murph's in trouble.”
Aeslin smoothly sits beside me, rubbing my back in slow, lazy circles. “Are you sure this isn't a,” his palm waffles around and I narrow my eyes on him, not even enjoying the muscled naked view of his chest. At. All.
“If you ask if this is a hormonal episode, I think I'll kill you.”
Aeslin's smile is swift, and I sorta want to kick him. Which pisses me off even more.
I cannot wait to be back to my aloof and logical self.
“Oh? I see, kill the soon-to-be father because he questions your state of being? No. Definitely not hormonal.” He and Matthews exchange a glance.
I huff a breath and cross my arms. “You guys are smug bastards.”
Matthews shakes his head. “No, we're survivalists in the world of Narah.”
“God!” I trumpet, trying to stand, hating the loss of that warm touch at my back.
Then I can't. I can't shovel myself off the couch, which makes me want to bawl.
Aeslin gently lifts me. “Your youngling calls to you.”
I nod, brushing the dumb, damning female tears angrily away. “Yes,” I hiss, fangs making an appearance.
I'm hungry. A-fucking-again. I eye up the blood bag in a greedy glance and Matthews hands me the remnants.
I make the bag go concave gleefully, sucking up the last few precious drops.
“We shall take you to where he is and Matthews and I will help with his... issue.”
Aeslin's silver eyes flare.
I put a staying hand on the strong, flat planes of his chest. “I want to help him,” I admit, guilty.
Matthews draws my chin up with a tender finger and searches my eyes. “There's no shame in relying on us. If you weren't carrying our young, this wouldn't even be a thing.”
He's right. But why do I feel so fucking mad?
I blow an abrupt breath out, my small braids notched back into a tight ponytail. “Okay.”
“Good girl,” Aeslin says and I punch him on the arm, he frowns pulling me against him. “Shh, Narah.”
I won't be placated. I pull away when all I want to do is fall into his arms and cry. “Let's go, boys.” I hold my hands out to them.
*
Murphy
“Final Enforcement, gents,” I announce unnecessarily to the pesky bunch of Mutables. I briefly contemplate—is there anyone left in Sioux Falls who does not know who I am? Who Narah Adrienne is?
The state of our notoriety is constant. Oppressive.
“We know,” the obvious leader of the group says, coming forward. His hair is a brash orange color with green eyes.
Fuck, I know this chap.
Hunter. Killian. The leader of what Matthews used to be: Hunters sent to find females like Narah once was. Seek and sterilize. We've been looking for this shitbag forever.
“Killian.”
He smiles, eyes like the forest in the clinging darkness. “Oh to be famous,” he seems to relish his flash of fame.
“It's a death sentence to injure or kill an enforcer.” My eyes don't stray to Mollie, but the inference is clear. He harmed my co-worker and that alone is worth due diligence on my part.
Due violence.
He snickers like an unhinged door. “Not unless I'm caught.”
I spread my arms away from my body. “Consider yourself duly apprehended.”
“Ah—that's where you're wrong, mongrel vampire. This is a matter of moving the applicable chess pieces around so I can get to the queen.”
“Stop speaking in riddles,” I say, my eyes keeping tabs on the half-formed Mutables.
Black bear. Lion.
Wolf.
Of course, those are the forms they're choosing to take.
My attention returns to their leader. Killian is smug.
Maybe not as much when Narah appears with tweedle dee and dumber.
Though they don't seem quite as stupid when they're coming to my aid.
*
“It's old home week,” Killian says in a good-natured voice, eyes trained on Matthews.
“Fuck off, Killian. Killer of females.”
He frowns then uses his fingers to show a small space between them. “A minor detail.”
“Why bother to have Hunters at all if you didn't believe in the cause?” Matthews steps forward and Narah puts a hand on his arm. “If you torture a bound female?” his voice lowering to a growl.
Killian's eyes move to my sire. “You're a catastrophe of nature. It would have been a favor to end you.” His eyes sweep her bulging belly. “Now you carry an abomination.” Killian's green eyes glow with insanity.
I do not agree on all charges.
Narah doesn't cringe at the Hunter who worked in collusion with the magistrate in a plan to torture her, but meets his stare head on.
Her silver eyes narrow, the soft rustle of her weapon's belt is a whisper of warning as she shifts her weight. “If I wasn't supposed to be what I am, I wouldn't exist. Take up your bullshit with Mother Nature, needle dick.”
I'd laugh but with the Mutables closing in, and their unique ability to shift to whatever form of their choosing for a brief time, we can't really luxuriate in clever banter.
Killian appears bored. “Kill them.”
“Where's Drake when we need him?” Narah mutters.
Yes, the prehistoric dragon would even the playing field.
The bear tears toward Narah.
I have a single pulse of protection for my sire that is numbingly terrible just as Aeslin blurs to meet the bear's charge. He stabs beastie in the guts, twisting the short dagger he unsheathed in a jerking, spinning strike that causes the bear Mutable's intestines to evacuate the cavity of his body.
They land in an ivory pile that steams in the coolness of the night.
Killian is on me before I can lift a finger to react.
Too fast. Too fast for a Hunter, supernatural Druid blood aside.
“Narah!” I bellow in warning.
Then his eyes catch mine. Vampire thrall batters my own.
Killian's been hiding what he really was—an ancient form of vampire.
Reaper.
Then Matthews clubs him on the back of the head. Clever boy.
Blood lets loose from his mouth, spraying in an inky pattern of spatter, hitting my mouth, my eyes.
I lick my lips. Finger-licking-good, as the Americans say.
Talons burst from my fingertips and I pierce his chest. Curling my fingers I yank the heart. Tossing the piece of muscle high in the air, Matthews steps back and I kick the piece of shit imposter with a foot to the chest.
Killian tumbles on his back, chest geysering blood while his mouth opens and closes in surprise.
I straighten, cracking my spine as I reach for the sky, getting the post-skirmish kinks out.
The other Mutables lay like discarded rubbish on the road. I move quickly to Mollie and after checking her pulse and ignoring the delicious pulse of blood pushing against my touch, I stand. “She'll live,” I say aloud.
I turn to Matthews and Aeslin. “Thank you, gents.”
“Kind of anticlimactic,” Matthews comments. “I always thought I'd meet up with Killian and there'd be a big, drawn out dual.”
Aeslin claps him on the back. “Not to worry, I think the night will have plenty of theatrics.”
We look behind him.
Narah's in the background, grunting and screaming. Not from injuries, but from pain.
She has gone into labor. Bollocks.
Chapter 4
Grace
Boxes litter my floor.
It's pretty sad really. There's only five.
Sondra stoops over some of my panties and scoops them directly from the lean laundry basket and tosses them inside a box.
She hooks a finger along the scant piece of fabric that connects the front with the back.
“Hopeful?” she asks, trying to inject humor into the horror that my life's become.
Instead of crying I laugh. “Always.”
“Humph,” she snorts, throwing the lacy tiny white g-string underwear in the box and taping it shut.
“Landlord didn't give you a break,” Sondra comments. “I mean,” she straightens, stretching like a cat, and the small bones pop in her back, “you can't help it that psychos tore through here. And, sure, they caused some damage but all your stuff got trashed.”
“Yeah.” I look down and the long curtain of my mousy brown hair closes around my expression. Hiding me.
“Least it's the weekend,” Sondra comments, scraping up some silver lining.
No work. But no Toby either. Mom holds our time together hostage. If I do stuff for her, then I see Toby. I did negotiate some time for next Sunday.
You'd think she'd be hot to get rid of him at every opportunity. More time with Bad to the Bone, and her drugs.
But no. He's her ace in the hole. Her pipeline to welfare. Her small cash cow.
The one thing Talbot hangs over me to keep me in line. An innocent human being who didn't ask to be born. Used.
I slowly sit on a few books stacked up, swiping a tear and Sondra's suddenly there, sinking to her heels. “Hey, you always got a couch at my place.” Her steady brown eyes meet mine.
Sondra's place is worse than mine, if possible. She has two couches, one is a bed and one is for sitting on.
“Don't know if you can sacrifice your only seating...” I begin to say.
She shrugs, her dark hair is like a cloud of spun chocolate around her head, swinging with her animated personality. “Fuck that.”
I burst out laughing and Sondra grins. “Extra seating is overrated. Means I have to think about it, doe eyes.”
I flush a little at the old nickname. My eyes take up a lot of my face. At least they're not buggy.
“That's not a dis,” Sondra says with a wink. “You've got gorgeous eyes, girl. They're almost purple.”
“Not really,” I laugh. “They're just really blue.”
Sondra shakes her head. “No really, they're kinda like a powder purple.”
I cross my arms. “Now you're just feeding my ego.”
Sondra arches an ebony eyebrow. “Working?”
“Nope.” But I smile a little. She's been a good friend. Even when I don't have anything to really offer her.
Sondra holds out a palm and I grab her hand as she hauls me up. Looking at my lame assembly of boxes, she says, “Not much to figure out here, between the two of us, we can get the entire shibang in my car in like, ten minutes.”
My landlord gave me twenty-four hours to evacuate. Or he'd make me responsible for the intrudersʼ damage too.
“I know.” I sigh, surveying my meager belongings. “I just wish this last month wasn't happening.”
“Still feeling sick?”
“Every day.” I don't meet her eyes.
Sondra squeezes my shoulder and her hand drops. “You leaving your furniture behind?” Her voice holds disbelief.
I nod, chest tight. “Kurt said he wouldn't come after me for the back rent if I left my stuff here.”
My eyes flick to her disgusted expression.
“But, God Grace—we got this stuff for nothing, worked on making it awesome... and now you have to leave it behind?”
My eyes catch and
hold the gorgeous, quartersawn oak table dating to pre-1920s. Just a small round table, solid wood—four seater. The arched back sofa covered in cabbage rose material fills the corner, long enough for four people. It's been my bed and lounger since I found it on the side of the road and reupholstered it with fabric choices from Sondra.
The cedar chest. The depression era pink glassware that was miraculously unbroken. Probably because it was in the chest.
The secretary dresser that has a square mirror at the top and held my small amount of jewelry.
My inhale is shaky.
Sondra's anger is tasteable. “Kurt's a prick. Sees some stuff here that looks nice and takes it out of your hide.”
Slowly I turn to her, swallowing my resentment. “He's right. I owe a thousand bucks in rent.” I suck in a raw inhale, ripping my eyes away from my stuff. “In the end, squaring up my debt with him is more important than things.”
Sondra searches my face for a painful beat of seconds then turns, bending over and hiking up the first box.
As she walks out the door she says over her shoulder, “Maybe it's okay that you're not here anymore. What with all the freaks barging in here.” She pointedly avoids the subject of all my precious finds that I'm abandoning.
I glance around my apartment of the last year and after a few moments, decide she's right. I walk out the door.
I don't shiver once.
Even when I see long nail marks scarring the thrashed drywall.
*
Sondra squints through the filthy fog of her windshield trying to make out important things like traffic signs. “So the cops didn't know anything?”
She uses her blinker and we turn into her covered parking space within the sea of all the others.
“No,” I shake my head. “They couldn't find any fingerprints, and the pockmarked drywall—”
“—should have been an indicator that they weren't human. Duh.”
Sondra's right. Now that the world knows about the sub-species of once-mythological creatures running around? Hell, the police have a whole new group of potential criminals. Used to be it was just garden variety losers to nab.
Now if there's a law broken, it isn't necessarily a human who caused the offense.
