by Alix Adale
Classy. But this was going nowhere. Time to press. He studied Moog’s clean-shaven, weathered face. “You ever wonder why I joined your circus, Moog?”
“Nope.” The other man spat. “I already know. You hint around it and hint around it, but never come out and ask.”
“What am I hinting at?”
“Someone killed your sire. Good. Someone shoulda killed all your sires, all the way back to Cain.”
“Don’t give me that Cain and Abel batshit.”
“If it’s in the Good Book, it must be true. Oh wait, you’re from Dagon, one of those fish-god worshippers. How’s that working out? Want to stick your dick in a fish? We got ten pounds of salmon in the freezer.”
Some day, Moog would go too far. Dreck crushed the empty beer can in his hand down to a wad of aluminum before summoning his inner fires. Heat radiated out from his fingers, heating up the lump of metal until it glowed red hot. With a grunt, he hurled it toward the trash heap. “Yeah, someone killed my sire. What do you know about it?”
Moog stared at the fire. When he spoke, the answer came out slow. “Seven years ago, a bat got killed at one of my shows, sitting in the audience. You want to know who did it.”
Was this the answer at last? Dreck’s pulse quickened. “Yeah. Who was it?”
“I don’t know—and I don’t care.” The lycan rose and rolled his shoulders, growling and unleashing his inner beast. The tank top and flannel shirt tore then dropped as the ringmaster shifted from human to werewolf. But he didn’t stop here. He shifted down to a genuine, four-legged wolf.
The transition was always fascinating, but the instinctive fear of the ancestral enemy never went away. Dreck steadied himself, staring back into those feral, yellow animal irises. They showed slit-like, lupine pupils. Transformed into a mighty timberwolf, Moog leaped onto the picnic table and howled. Then with a flick of his tail, he darted into the cold desert night to hunt.
The bastard couldn’t even pretend to care about some vampire who died seven years ago. That, or he was hiding something, maybe even his own involvement. Nobody had kept a sample or tested the DNA in the remains. Nobody even knew what had happened to Ferdinand’s ashes. He had only the Queen’s word that his sire was dead.
Dreck sipped a few more beers, letting the buzz come slow as he waited for the trailer to quiet down. Listening to Brick and Kit rutting like bunnies every night did give one urges. A hyoo-mon woman. Why did lycans say it like an insult? They were all born human—vampires, lycans, and normals.
A human female. Yeah. That should spice things up. He hadn’t hooked up with a woman since that night in Bend.
Chapter 5: Antelope Refuge
Jordan
A glorious sight moved in the lenses of her binoculars: a powerful, naked man rubbing sudsy water across his body. Rugged and muscular, he stood beneath a rickety, outdoor shower-head, rinsing off the soap. With a final shake of wet hair, he stepped out, covering his face with a towel, still unaware of her scrutiny. Water rolled off his naked torso and limbs, plastering fine hair against the deep tan of his body. Increasing the zoom on her binoculars, she studied old scars and faded tattoos across the deep tan of his skin. Nothing distinctive in those markings, but he was one fine piece of man-work.
Sorry, naked guy. It was hard not to stare. While the Order didn’t demand celibacy, a hunter’s regimen of training, secrecy, and travel almost guaranteed it. The last sex was—wait, had it been a year already? Yeah, it had. Not since that music festival last summer with some guy who claimed to have dragged Saddam Hussein out of his spider-hole in Iraq. Men and their boasting. None of their claims even came close to her crazy life.
The binoculars studied the rest of the complex. The shower contraption stood underneath a rusted out water-tower, not far from the rest of the hideaway. The main structure was a pre-fab house surrounded by trailers and shacks. A place this far out in the wilds wasn’t on the grid and made do with its own water and power supply.
Was this naked guy one of the lycans in Ingrid’s circus? Where were his dogs then? Most lycans kept dogs, according to the lore. Not that she wanted them barking at her, but their absence was troubling. At least naked guy wasn’t a vampire, walking around shirtless in the blazing sun. Either he was a lycan or a human. True, Malmardane had circumvented that somehow, but that was unusual. Ordinary vampires would die within minutes under the blazing noon.
The GPS coordinates led straight here, but until Ingrid showed up, better stay alert. If Malmardane could penetrate the Jesuit cemetery, that fiend could show up anywhere. By now, naked guy had squeezed into a pair of jeans and wandered into the ranch house. That’s where she’d go first.
Best to try the stealthy approach, but with sword—or without? Her mentor’s voice came out of the past: A hunter is her weapon; without it, she is but a sheathe. ‘But a sheathe’—leave it to the serious but clueless old Jesuits.
She packed up the binoculars, hid the duffel bag under a mesquite bush, and strapped katana—sheathe and all—across her back. Dusty from the hike and dressed in black denim jeans and a brown leather jacket, she crept toward the complex. Depending on the cover, her mode alternated between crouching, crawling, and dashing from boulder to boulder.
The possibility existed that Malmardane had followed, however unlikely. It had taken two days of driving to get to this remote corner of Nevada. Many of those miles were on narrow, two-lane highways with nothing but desert all around. Anyone tailing her, even from the sky, would’ve stood out. But there’d been no sign of Malmardane since the funeral.
In Santa Barbara, she’d rented a nondescript but newer model Kia Rio with her Ordo Silentii credit card, hammering it up Interstate 5 as far as Sacramento. Then she turned east into the Sierra Nevada foothills, making Reno before rush hour. This was one of the more dangerous part of the journeys since Reno was large enough to support a vampire clan, but at least it wasn’t one loyal to Malmardane.
In town, she returned the rental car, ate at an outdoor café, and picked up supplies at Wal-Mart before making her way to a sketchy used car dealer. There, she paid cash money for a used but desert-worthy Chevy Blazer. Then on to a Motel 6 on the outskirts of town, where she barricaded herself in a room and set out traps and holy signs at every possible entry point. She endured a fitful sleep in the bathtub, wrapped in sheets and bedspreads, clutching her katana. The duffel bag lay in the bed, a serviceable decoy. But nothing troubled her but the nightmares: a flood, an SUV drifting away, a massive shape in the cemetery.
At the crack of dawn, she showered and dressed. In the parking lot, she searched the chassis of her Blazer end-to-end for tracking devices but found nothing suspicious. Satisfied, she headed into the desert. Paper maps led her along ever narrower and more rugged two-lane highways, one-lane roads, and gravel tracks to this isolated ranch house. It was a rare bit of private property located deep within the Sheldon National Antelope Refuge, a half million acres of Federal land in northwestern Nevada.
Three miles from the destination, she parked behind a ridge where the long, private drive met the government access road. Out of sight and earshot, she hiked the rest of the way in.
From atop scattered rocks, tiny geckos watched her with beady eyes, the only sign of life.
With any luck, this was Moog’s ranch house and the pack was sleeping off a lycan bacchanal. Lycans loved to party. The polished aluminum of the trailer siding glinted in the desert sun.
Gravel crunched behind her, causing her to spin around. Naked man—now in jeans and cowboy boots—stepped around the corner, only three feet away. He was in a fighting stance, left foot forward, fists blocking, charging!
Training kicked in and she leaped back, warding him off with a wide kick. Her boot spun about a foot short of his head, as she intended—a warning.
He snarled in response, ducking under her leg with preternatural speed and grabbing at it with an outstretched hand. He missed, caught the back of her foot on the upswing, and staggered back, dropping
to one knee. Her second kick staggered him.
Shouldn’t be fighting—this might be Moog. She jumped back, raising her fists into a protective stance. “Wait! I’m here for—”
Jeans man sprang to his feet and flung a scoop of desert sand at her face—ugh! It caught in her eyes and throat, forcing her to backpedal. He flung himself at her, arms catching around her middle and bearing her to the ground in a textbook tackle. Their bodies crashed to the rock-strewn drive, his weight overbearing as he landed atop her. The wind rushed out of her lungs, the dust stinging her eyes and burning her throat.
When the dust cleared, his face stared down inches away. Stern but strong features, centered around a pair of dark, probing eyes. Stubble and a touch of sideburns shadowed his fresh-scrubbed face. This close, his breath reeked of cigar smoke despite the recent shower. When he spoke, it was a gruff baritone. “Is that a katana on your back?”
“Yeah.”
A smile cracked his lips. “You’re Kit’s friend, the human.”
Good, they expected her. She pushed on his chest. “Mind getting off me?”
“Sure.” He lingered for a second before scrambling up. Back on his feet, he even offered a hand. “Sorry ‘bout that, but had to be sure you weren’t a rival pack. Or some meth-head, trying to steal a tank of propane.”
“Do I look like a lycan—or a meth-head?” She ignored the hand, clambering to her feet on her own. “I wanted to check the place out before strolling in. Is Ingrid here? She said to come anytime before the first of the month. Her lycan name’s Kit.”
He nodded as if it was natural for someone to sneak up on a ranch instead of ringing the bell. “The pack’s out hunting. Won’t be back til morning.”
“Figures.”
“Come on in, there’s beer and hamburgers.”
Anything fresh sounded delicious. Even better, she’d made it. This was Kit’s pack, not a trap set out by Malmardane. “You’re not out hunting with the others?”
He stood on the doorstep, holding the screen door open. “Not my style.”
This was a cocky one. Still, she could roll with cocky. And good-looking—and shirtless. And wet and naked, not so long ago. She followed him into the trailer. “What’s your style?”
“Lone wolf on the prowl.”
Oh, Lord. “Is that a pickup line?”
“Seems I picked you up and put you down already,” he said, wandering into the kitchenette and opening a fridge.
“You threw dust in my eyes, otherwise I would’ve had you.”
“An old soldier’s trick.” Cold bottles, packs of lunch meat, rolls of sausage, and condiments lined bare shelves. “Beer?”
“That works.”
The interior lights were off, but sunlight flooded in through panorama windows facing west, north, and east. Couches and blankets lay in heaps against the walls. Ash trays, old beer cans, and playing cards covered battered coffee tables. A wide-screen TV anchored a complete home entertainment system. This pack lived well but were obvious slobs. Ingrid put up with this? Jordan wrinkled her nose. Not the Ingrid she remembered.
Plenty of time before the pack returned next morning. For once, she didn’t need to do any research, train, travel, or write up a report for the Order. Tonight, she could relax. Almost. She’d never known any lycans other than Ingrid, but the lore was clear: don’t get comfortable around any supernatural creatures. Even obnoxious little nature spirits fooled and tormented the unwary. But vampire hunters and lycans shared a common enemy. Even the Order of Silence acknowledged that ancient truth: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
The place was cozy if not homey. Her feet rested on the arm of a battered but comfy armchair, fingers curled around a second bottle of beer.
Her host—he introduced himself as Dreck—sat on a nearby couch, puffing a cigar with a casual and easygoing air—but stealthy eyes assessed her. Most of the time, that type of scrutiny from a man meant one thing in particular, but this guy guarded his moods with some care. His eyes did travel with curiosity over to her katana, hanging on the lowest peg of a gun rack. He was wary—but interested.
A fair assessment. She could say the same. He’d given her a tour of the grounds, they traded small talk, avoiding personal details. She liked that. It was sensible. She was sick of lying all the time to everyone outside the Order. It grew hard to keep the lies straight. “What kind of name is Dreck, anyway? Doesn’t that mean junk?”
“Yeah.” He said it with a disarming smile, taking no offense. “Like white trash.”
“Too tan for white trash, know what I’m saying?”
“Yup.” He took a long pull of beer, wiped the back of his mouth. “Not as fancy as Jordan Rivers, but we can’t all be mysterious.”
“Who told you my name?”
“Kit.”
“She’s a blabbermouth. She say anything else about me, what I do?”
“Some kinda martial artist, that’s it.”
“That’s good. Well, you curious?”
“About what?”
“Why I’m here, what I do, what my favorite color is?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your favorite color?”
She laughed. “Orange.”
“Orange?” His clear, hard eyes studied hers. “Why’s that? You big into Halloween?”
“Because nobody ever picks orange.”
“Orange.” He laughed. “Jordan Rivers.”
“That’s right. Go on, get your jokes out. You know, ‘roll, Jordan, roll’ and all that.”
“Jokes? Let’s see, there’s that old song about how even the Jordan river is full of bodies floating. Right?”
“Mm-hmm. I put them there myself.”
“I bet you did.”
“You take care of your body too, Mr. Dreck. But those are some nasty bruises. Scratches. Some new, some old. Lots of fights?”
His gaze dropped to his torso. “That’s life in the Circus of Blood. I’ll warn ya, if you can fight, Moog will throw you in the cage, make you earn your keep.”
“Fight who?”
“Challengers from the crowd, or make you fight Kit. We give the packs a good show.”
“I’m down as long as it’s legit. No oil-wrestling bullshit.”
Dreck snickered. “We don’t do those kinda shows, though I wouldn’t complain.” He nodded at the katana. “You know how to use that?”
“Mmm-hmm, me and my sword go way back. That’s all I’ll say about that.”
“Fair enough,” he said, slapping his knees. “Hungry? I’ll grill up some hamburgers.”
“A man after my own heart.” The thought of him in the kitchen, cooking up meat for her—mmm. She hoped the rest of the pack didn’t come home early. This Dreck situation showed potential. At least he wasn’t telling wild stories about Iraq.
As he cooked, she fetched her duffel bag and hiked back to the Chevy. She carried a fist-sized rock in one hand, his suggestion.
“What for?” she’d asked.
“Rattlesnakes.”
So she carried the rock. Failing that, the katana rode her back.
Finding the Blazer undisturbed, she drove it to the ranch and parked behind the camper-trailer. That shielded her ride from the road—not that she expected anyone to spot it. But caution kept a hunter alive.
They ate a quiet supper on the west-facing verandah, settling into a couple of deck chairs. The sunset painted the big sky with broad strokes of purple and orange. As the darkness gathered, they cracked a couple more beers and shared a marijuana pipe back and forth, his treat.
The sweet smoke curled up in her lungs, adding a mild, expansive note to the beer buzz. Again, not something she’d enjoyed since last summer’s music festival. Hunters weren’t supposed to drink alcohol or smoke weed—it messed up the training—along with a long list of other prohibitions, but once in a while, she indulged. The Order didn’t sweat the small stuff. The life of a hunter was violent and often short.
She flicked the lighter. “Worst nights of
my life came from mixing drugs.”
“Worst nights? Those are the best nights.”
“Now you, I like.”
They settled into a comfortable talk. Dreck explained how Moog’s Circus of Blood traveled in the camper-trailer to various lycan gatherings. They put on cage matches for money, selling meat and beer, taking bets, and beating local champions. It sounded brutal, mindless, but not lethal. About what the doctor had ordered. Training, fighting, and stretching her abilities in new directions would help. She needed time to work things out. Ten years of slaying was a lot.
This Dreck could scratch another long-suppressed itch, but did lycans have a protocol? What if this was Ingrid’s man? She’d researched lycans but nowhere near as much as vampires. They could smell one another’s mated status. That didn’t help. She couldn’t smell anything but weed and barbecue.
Dreck had thrown on a flannel shirt come evening, but he remained as rugged and appealing as in the shower. Strange that he didn’t trip any alarm bells—no spiders walking down her spine—despite his lycan nature. She should have picked up a whiff of the supernatural, that indefinable sense of otherness that such people carried. Then again, she’d almost lost that adolescent sensitivity; it happened to every slayer in their twenties. Add in a few beers, some dank weed, and the long road trip, and she might not even notice Malmardane sniffing around. So much for keeping her guard up. “If Father Sierra could see me now, he’d freak.”
Dreck shot a glance over. “Father Sierra? You Catholic?”
“Mmm, yes and no. It’s complicated.”
“Simple women are boring.”
“Complicated women are dangerous.”
“I don’t have to use a condom. Is that dangerous enough for ya?”
Where did that come from? Her laughter rang out. “Is that a joke—or an offer, dude?”
“Whatever tickles your fancy.”
“You can tickle a woman’s fancy, can you?”
