by Alix Adale
“Thank you, Father. I don’t think he’s coming back. Not tonight, anyway.”
“I pray that it’s so. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. Father, will you hear my confession?”
“Of course.” He unlocked the rectory with a key, glancing at his old-fashioned watch. “Five o’clock in the chapel?”
“Thank you.” Once inside, she returned to her small, second-story guestroom and dialed Ingrid, but the call went to voicemail without even a message. There was no way of knowing if this was still Ingrid’s number since immortals went through contact information the way regular folks went through groceries. So she kept the message short. “Hey, it’s Jordie. I need to cash in that massive favor. Hit me back. Bye.”
Full of nervous energy, she repacked her duffel bag with all her worldly goods. Not much to show for twenty-five years on this planet, the last ten given over to slaying. This framed photograph of her family was the only one left. Five smiling faces stood in front of their Oklahoma house.
Mom. Dad. Her fingers touched the smooth glass of the photo frame. Big sis, always on the phone, talking to or about boys. And David in his Sooners jersey, hugging his dog. The football jersey made his seven-year-old frame look elfin. Sometimes, his was the hardest loss to take. They stole the most life from him. How do you kill a seven-year-old child? How? She wrapped the portrait inside a sweater and tucked it in the bag.
Even now, the memory stung. Nobody names tornadoes, but the one that ravaged Caddo County deserved one. It broke a dam, flooding the entire town. Dad blew his fire whistle and ushered the family into the car like they’d practiced. But then she jumped out to go get David’s puppy, still barking in the house. The rising tide of water stranded her on the second story, while her father struggled to keep the Silverado on the street. Mama, Judy, even David all leaned out the windows, waving at her and yelling for her to swim for it.
“Daddy!” she’d screamed from the second-story window, the puppy wriggling in her hands. The tornado stole her words away in a whirlwind of air and rain and fury. A surge of brown water lifted the SUV and sent it drifting down a once quiet street.
People had died and drowned in the hundreds that day. Law and order had broken down. The barrier between realities fell. The undead rose and feasted.
Her father’s SUV, her family leaning out the windows, drifting down a storm-wracked street. Their last moments on Earth. Then they came: gray, sinister shapes with spindly limbs, rising out of the sewers. A whole nest of them, tearing off car doors and—
What happened next thrust her into the Order. It had taken years of study to learn the name of the vampire master who had ravaged in the wake of the flood: Malmardane. It took even longer to hunt him and down and wipe out his entire bloodline. And now he was back. Against every law of God and man, he was back—and now he’d killed her mentor too.
She sheathed her samurai sword, zipped it up inside the duffel bag. Sabbatical or not, the sword came with her.
The chapel was quiet as she entered. Columns of late afternoon light—yellow beams filled with gliding motes—poured in through the nave’s atrium, forming a temple of light across Spanish tiles. A light showing under the confessional door was the only sign of life.
She entered the parishioner side of the booth, knelt, and made the sign of the cross. Catholicism was part and parcel of Order training. That demons existed had made converting easier back then. But now? “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
A small frieze in the wooden grillwork dividing the confessional booth slid open and Father Sierra’s gnomic features peered out. “The Lord knows and loves all. Know that He loves you.”
“My last confession was about two weeks before—before this happened. Before he died.”
“That was three months ago, Jordan.”
“I know. It’s … I accuse myself of the following sins: doubting my faith, questioning my vows, and wanting to leave the Order.”
Father Sierra frowned, leaning forward. “We need you. Now, more than ever. The return of that thing—whose name I will not utter here—shows us that.”
Yes, that thing, that Malmardane. How? How had he come back? “I’m asking for a leave of absence, Father. Not a permanent release.”
The priest folded his arms. “The loss of your cell is troubling, but you’ve lost brethren before. You’ve fought the good fight for a decade. Why doubt yourself now? This might be your greatest test. You, who have already passed so many.”
Yeah, so many tests. So many nights hunting the undead, so many redeye flights across the country on the off-chance of finding a lair. So many stakeouts, so much blood. So many dead. Her voice shook as it fell. “Father, it never ends.”
He frowned. “Perhaps a sabbatical would help renew your spirit. But where will you go?”
Where Malmardane couldn’t find her. The hunter was now the hunted. The Father’s question sounded innocent, but her trust had dipped to an all-time low. “If Malmardane can show up at an Order funeral in the middle of the day, he can show up anywhere. But the dead have realms of their own. If I bug out of California, maybe he won’t follow me.”
“We can move you to Latin America, Europe, the Philippines, almost anywhere you like. The Order is global.”
“I appreciate that, but better if nobody knows where I am. Let me meditate in the wilderness. Train. Think. Pray. Deal with this my own way.” She coughed. “I am sorry for these and all my sins.”
The Father put his hands together, acknowledging the confession’s end. “I assign you a penance of—let’s see. A thousand hours of community service.”
That sounded excessive, almost angry. Her neck lifted. “Father?”
Through the frieze, he grinned. “Self-directed community service. Six months on your own. Go where you like. But keep your phone handy and your faith strong. Continue to celebrate Mass.”
“Yes, Father, I will. Thank you.” She said the Act of Contrition and received the traditional absolution. She rose, trying to lighten the mood. “My phone? What for, the Apocalypse?”
“Not yet. But events are accelerating. Fear, hate, and violence are rising worldwide. Recall your Yeats.”
“The Second Coming?”
The priest nodded “What rough beast is slouching toward Bethlehem, yearning to return?”
Father Sierra didn’t need to worry, that phone was coming along. She returned the rectory, paced her room, stressed at not getting hold of Ingrid. In a weird bit of synchronicity, the phone rang a few minutes later, the screen showing ‘Private Number.’ Better be Ingrid. “Yeah?”
A liquid, female voice answered, “Jordie?”
“Ingrid. How you been with your foxy self?”
“Good—good. Wow, haven’t heard from you in years.”
“Not since I rescued your ass in Stockton.”
“I remember! How’s life?”
This would take some tact, something she lacked. Tact wasn’t needed to plunge a stake into a vampire heart. “Not good, Ingrid. Time to bug out for a while.”
Hesitation came across the line. “Okay.”
What if Ingrid refused? Awkward. The whole plan hinged on it. There was no Plan B, other than letting the Order shuffle her off to Italy or Brazil or wherever. “Ingrid, I need to lay low for a few months. Can you help?”
Another pause, longer than before. “Jordan, I owe you big time and I’d do anything for you. I would. But this place I’m at—it’s not safe. You don’t belong out here.”
“Safe? You know what life in the Order is about.”
Ingrid sighed. “Jordie. I’m in the lycan lands.”
“So what? Some humans hang with packs. I can handle myself.”
“Not here. Trust me, Jordie.”
“You’re not running with cannibals or something crazy. Come on. I know you.” She crossed the narrow floor to the window, gazing out across the sweep of lawns and headstones. “Please. I got nowhere else to go.”
Across however
many hundreds of miles, Ingrid sighed. “All right, you win. I’ll send an encrypted GPS thing to your phone. Show up no later than July first. After that, we’re driving to a big biker rally. The decryption key is my old surname. You remember it?”
Ingrid had once been a hunter trainee ago in their Kyoto dojo before turning into a lycan. Funny how things worked out. “I remember. Where you at, anyway?”
“Moog’s Circus of Blood.”
“Circus of what?” She laughed. “Sounds fun.”
“It’s worse than it sounds.”
“Either way, don’t tell these people what I do. Safer for everyone. And—thanks, Ingrid. Now I owe you one.”
“Don’t drag a nest of you-know-whats along with you.”
“I’ll try not, that’s for damn sure. See ya when I see ya.”
Chapter 4: The Vote
Dreck
After the fight, he and Brick broke down the cage and packed it in the camper-trailer for the next gig. Meanwhile, Moog sat in the trailer drinking while the fourth member of the Circus, a werefox named Kit, counted the money. The paying guests had already left, though a couple Blood Moon bikers demanded their money back first. Moog snarled at them and they shuffled off, bitter.
Brick flung the last piece of cage into the trailer with a grunt. A hairy paw slammed the door shut. “Let me win next time, Dreck. Just once.”
“If Moog says take a dive, I take a dive. Nothing personal, son.” Gotta eat away at a lycan’s pride to lose match after match to a hated bat. He padlocked the trailer then clapped the big bruin on the back, avoiding the most obvious bandages. Moog always recovered fast from his beatings and burnings, that was his totemic power. They walked over to the picnic bench.
Kit’s head shot up as they approached, her petite form making her look younger than her twenty-five years. Seeing Brick’s injuries, she shot a reproving look at Dreck, but it faded. She didn’t like him beating on her man night after night. Bundled up in a down jacket, her large fox ears and abundance of strawberry blonde hair were the only signs of her kitsune nature. That was a Japanese word for werefox. The things one learned on the road.
“Hey guys,” Kit said. “Something’s up.”
Brick sat with a groan beside Kit, pulling her onto his lap. “What’s that, babe?”
“I got a friend coming to visit and I didn’t ask Moog if it was okay.”
“So ask him,” said Brick. “Wait. Is this friend male or female?”
“Female.”
Brick grunted. “Good. She can help sell beer.”
Brick was wrong—there was more to it than that. Ingrid’s large eyes, so hazel they almost looked yellow, couldn’t hide the worry. Dreck settled onto the picnic table beside the two. “What’s the trouble, Kit?”
The woman sighed. “Her name’s Jordan. We go way back to when I was named Ingrid. Because, well, she’s human.”
“Hyoo-mon!” Moog walked out of the dark so stealthy, he surprised them all—despite still wearing his human form. “I don’t need hyoo-mons mooching off the enterprise.” For someone bigoted against ordinary Homo sapiens, Moog wore a man’s shape most of the time. He also wore his hair in a tight army buzz cut, a stark contrast to most lycans who flaunted their hairiness even as men. His tank top showed off tanned, muscled arms and an unsavory collection of tattoos. According to Moog, he’d collected them in the military, prison, and various biker gangs across the Lycan Nations. “Call her back and tell her to fuck off. No hyoo-mons. Bad enough we’re traveling with a bat.”
Kit pressed. “I already invited her.”
“Uninvite her,” Moog snapped, turning toward the beer cooler. His tone brooked no argument.
Dreck’s curiosity piqued, along with that knack of finding trouble. “Why is your friend coming, Kit?”
Kit shot a worried glance over, then lowered her eyes. “She’s in trouble. I dunno what, but she needs to lay low. Maybe a week or two.”
That wasn’t the whole story, but Dreck let it pass. The kid had an uphill battle against Moog. He grabbed a bottle of Coors.
“She can fight,” Kit said, shooting a strange, guilty look at Dreck. “Better than me. As good as you. I’ve seen her do it.”
The first flicker of interest showed in Moog’s eyes. “Oh yeah? What kinda fighter?”
“Spirit Dragon Temple in Kyoto. We were classmates. She has a katana and everything.”
Great, another of those martial arts types. Dreck spat on the ground. “I’m not getting in the ring with a sword-wielding maniac.”
“Me either,” said Brick. “A goddamn fire-shooting bat’s bad enough. Now weapons? C’mon. I’ve never tried growing back anything bigger than a toe and I don’t want to start.”
Moog’s narrow, crafty face took on a thoughtful expression. Then it vanished. “Where’s she gonna sleep? We got three beds in the camper and I ain’t sharing.”
“I don’t know,” said Kit. “We’ll get a sleeping bag. Does it matter?”
“She can sleep with us,” Brick offered.
“Brick!” Ingrid squirmed with disapproval.
“Is she hot?” Moog asked. “If she’s hot, she can sleep with me.”
Kit flushed. “She’s good-looking.”
Brickhouse belched. “Big tits? Bigger than yours?”
She hit him. “You’re a bear, not a pig!”
Poor Kit. Dreck shook his head, amused at the banter. The ‘bat’ slurs aimed at him rolled right off his back. What else could he expect from lycans? But the pack’s constant jostling for status with put-downs, crude displays, and challenges grew tiresome. Lycans used words as weapons, clubbing each other with primal insults. It was often a prelude to aggressive displays if not outright violence.
Vampiric society was no bastion of tolerance either—it was a dangerous, supernatural underworld—but misogyny, homophobia, and other bigotry went out of fashion for most long ago. Unending lives brought boredom, tolerance, and a willingness to experiment. Underworld strength also grew over time. He’d known vampires smaller than Kit whose age made them stronger than Brickhouse. Hell, a couple months ago, Queen Ursula had hurled one of his clan-mates through a window and across fifty feet of lawn.
Ursula, that murdering bitch—that possible murdering bitch. He didn’t have many clues about who killed his sire. Was it a rival clan, lycans, even vampire hunters? Was Ursula involved? He drank his beer.
Moog scratched his jaw. “We cleared fifteen hundred bucks tonight, so I’ll put it to a pack vote. Hell, I’ll even give the bat a say. Okay, Dreck?”
“Yeah, I’ll vote. But I ain’t gonna howl with you flea-bags.”
“Better fleas than hepatitis, you sick fuck. Kit, you’re in favor. Brick, what’s your call?”
The big red werebear belched. “If new bitch don’t piss me off, she can hang. That’s good eating!”
Moog shot dark eyes across the picnic table. “Dreck.”
“I got no objections.”
Moog teased. “Can you control yourself around a fresh, juicy human? What if she steps out of the cage, all nice and bloody?”
Asshole. He sat up straighter. “I can handle it.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Moog. “Kit’s mooch is along for the ride.” He threw his head back and let loose a moon-splitting howl, downright lupine despite his current human form. Brickhouse threw in a great bellow and even Kit joined in with a high-pitched yowl.
Living with lycans was an adventure. He cringed until the pack silenced their embarrassing public display.
Kit clapped her hands until Brickhouse scooped her up and threw her over a shoulder. The big lycan again shouted, “That’s good eating!”
The werefox giggled and punched his back, squirming, but it was for show. Brick grabbed a six pack of tallboys and carried his girlfriend off to the camper-trailer, letting the door slam behind them. Soon after, the trailer started rocking—and Dreck knew better than to come knocking.
Instead, he popped two more beers, handing one
to his ‘boss.’ Moog acted mellow for a change, so it was a good chance to pump him for leads. Better to work up to the subject, not sound too obvious. If Moog had any involvement in Ferdinand’s death, things could get ugly fast. “She’s a good mate for Brick.”
Moog scoffed. “She’s no mate, just a bitch.”
The man shouldn’t talk that way about Kit, but it wasn’t time to argue. He blew it off. “Aren’t they in love?”
“No, lust. A mated pair smells different. They have each other’s scents all over them. Then their distinct scents change, resembling each other. It’s unmistakable—to a lycan.”
He sipped his beer. “Maybe. You all smell like wet dogs to me.”
Moog laughed. “You got a mate?”
“Centuries ago, but let me tell you something I’ve learned during my time as a vampire.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t tell boring stories about the past. Live in the now.” He paused, looking down at the ground. “These days, I’m a classic lone wolf—forgive the expression. No mates, not this lifetime.”
Moog chuckled. “Dreck, when you first showed up here, I didn’t like you, because you’re a goddamn bat. I still don’t like you, because you’re a goddamn bat. But I respect you. You fight. You keep the bloodlust bottled up. And you take orders.”
“I don’t take orders. I agree with your suggestions because they are in the best interest of the group.”
“Call it what you like. Point is, with the Circus, you’re an asset. But with women, you’re a dumbass.”
“What?”
“Listen. In Reno last week, at least three women hit on you in the casino and you blew ‘em off. But you’re not gay, because I saw you with that hooker up in Bend. Look man, don’t buy the goods when they’re giving out free samples!”
Dreck scowled. Moog was getting too close to home. That woman in Bend was no streetwalker but one of his clan mates, Cherise. Moog did not need to know about that. Better change the subject. “Sometimes you got to feed the beast. Anyway, you never voted about Kit’s friend. Aye or nay?”
“I’m withholding judgment,” Moog said, standing and draining his beer, “until I get a whiff of her pussy.”
