by Alix Adale
His cigar drew orange circles in the dark. “It’s down there somewhere.”
Well, well. The evening had grown more interesting. She rolled onto her side, facing him on the opposite deck chair. “I’m staying with this ‘circus’ a few weeks, maybe longer.”
“So I heard.”
“When I’m done, I head on down the road. No strings attached.”
“No sweat.”
A hand reached out, found his in the moonlight. “It’s been a while.”
White teeth flashed in the dark. “A couple months for me.”
With his looks, that sounded doubtful. But who wanted to know about his other lovers? Not her. That was his business. What mattered was him right now. Not his past, not his future—just this Dreck dude in the present. Her hand squeezed his.
Strong fingers squeezed back, pulling her into a close embrace. His warm breath played across her cheek. “You know what they say about Catholic girls?”
“No, what do they say?”
“I’m asking. You tell me.”
Hah. Some wit was better than none. She blew in his ear. “We’re tasty.”
“Oh yeah? Let’s find out.”
He rose out of his deck chair; she did the same. Moving together, they caught each other in a mutual embrace. She squirmed and pressed against his strong arms, squeezing his biceps, pawing his chest.
With a swift motion, he scooped her up in his arms. Hers went around his neck. He put a strong hand over her bottom to steady her and carried her inside, setting her down on the largest mattress.
They didn’t strip naked, not at first. They rolled on the bed, warm mouths finding and exchanging needs. The mattress was stained and the sheets loose, but that didn’t matter. Her lips found his in the dark, expressing an urgent desire.
“Dreck,” she whispered. “I want you.”
“The feeling—as they say—is mutual.”
Only then did their clothes come off; they managed it without breaking the kiss. Her arms stroked his chest. His caressed her breasts, finding the trembling tips. Her body heated, flushed. She moaned as they stretched out beside each other, hands to thighs. They traded wet, oral need until ready, shifting positions again.
Dreck became a presence, driving to the needs at her core. How he filled her inside, as much as he could, driving his cock in and out. She met his movements with thrusts of her own, an equal reaction for every action. They twisted about until she mounted him, cowgirl style. It seemed right in the bleak desert night.
Experienced, he paced himself, gripping her arms with that uncanny, lycan strength as she writhed. Only after she howled his name did he let himself go, unleashing inside her. Her fingers dug into his chest hair as they came until neither could come no more.
“That was good,” Dreck said, lying back on the mattress. Moonlight streamed through the open windows, illuminating the living room. “How long did you say you were staying?”
“A few weeks, maybe more, maybe less.” She rolled onto her side, content. “Nobody in the pack will get jealous about us?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “Brickhouse—he’s the werebear I told you about—is hooked up with your friend. Moog’s a loner—like me. So unless you prefer him to me…”
Interesting idea. “What’s he look like?”
“Ugly man. Even uglier as a werewolf.”
She squeezed his bicep, grinned. “What about you, Dreck? What kind of were-beast are you?”
His finger touched her nose. “I am but a man.”
Only human? That might be possible. It would account for her spirit sense not tripping. As he lay in her arms, twitching in his sleep, she stroked his arm, counting the scars, the faded tattoos, the marks along his fine, strong limbs. Some of the more faded tats looked old-fashioned, even decades old, despite his thirty-something appearance.
But it wasn’t until she drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep did her subconscious piece it together: the ancient tattoos, the pack member that did not prowl the desert with the others. Dreck was a vampire. By then it was too late. She only kicked and rolled in her sleep, the insight fading.
Her dreams shifted, as they inevitably did, back to the tornado. An SUV drifted down a street awash with brown water. Half a dozen gray shapes rose from the flood, naked and inhuman. Her family’s faces pressed against the glass, giving vent to silent screams.
Chapter 6: He’s a What?
Dreck
A woman was shouting in another room. “He’s a what? A vampire? You shitting me, Ingrid? The boy was walking around in the sun!”
Dry throat. Pounding headache. Too much yelling. Another morning in paradise—Moog’s Circus of Blood. Wait a minute… He sat up in the twisted sheets.
“He does that somehow,” Kit said, distressed. “But it’s true. He’s Blooded.”
Something glass shattered in the next room. Uh oh. The other woman kept shouting. “You let me fuck a vampire! The fuck is wrong with you, girl?”
“You weren’t supposed to have sex with him!” Kit shouted back. “I was going to tell you before that!”
Jordan Rivers—that was her name. Yesterday afternoon, Kit’s friend had shown up—curvy, dark, and gorgeous. They ate supper together, drank beer and enjoyed some weed. She had steel in her, that one, the way he liked it. She was a fighter. Eager too, great in bed—nothing that good in how long? No point even trying to compare. Not with his head pounding and the women shouting.
His door flung open. Kit stood there in human form, wearing dusty shorts and a tank top, her hunting clothes. “Dreck, I have to tell you something important.”
A little late for that. He rose from the bed, pulled on some boxers. “What, that your friend hates vampires? I managed to figure that out from all the screaming.”
Kit wrung her fingers together, squirming in the doorway. “It’s so much worse than that. She’s … she’s … I was going to tell you, I was! But I didn’t know how you’d react!”
The hell was the little one trying to say? Wait a minute. Catholic. Katana. Oh shit. Could it mean? He yanked his jeans on. “Spill it, kiddo.”
Blushing, Kit’s eyes went to his crotch. “Jordan’s a slayer.”
Damn. The worst answer. Ice ran through his veins even as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. Time slowed as his eyes scanned the room for threats. Words bought him time. “This your idea of a joke, Kit? Moog put you up to this?”
The kitsune put her hands over her face. “No. It’s my fault. I thought—I didn’t think.”
He wasn’t listening. The hunter could be anywhere in the house. Her sword would be in her guestroom—that’s where’d she go, once her shock wore off. To fetch it and use it to cut off his head.
The little lycan blocked the doorway, but the window was wide open. Quiet filled the rest of the house—no sound of Moog or Brick stirring yet. A single dog barked in a lazy way out near the kennels.
Which line of attack would the hunter choose: the door or window? With a snarl, he pulled on his letterman jacket before scrambling across the windowpane. His second leg swung onto the outside dirt a moment before Jordan burst into the room. He scampered across the yard.
“Deus vult, motherfucker!” the woman shouted, waving her katana out the window.
Slayers. Kill on sight. Unlike lycans, who on a good day might sign a truce—might even take on a rogue Blooded as a circus sideshow—vampires did not negotiate with vampire hunters. Slayers killed the Blooded, every chance they got. The Blooded paid them back in kind, every day of the year. The two sides fought this war around the world, across the centuries, to the death.
Good thing he was out of the bedroom. Close quarters against a katana could prove deadly. Outdoors, he could put his advantages—superhuman strength, superior speed—to work. He backpedaled across the yard, beckoning. “Come on, woman. I’ll break your neck!”
Jordan vanished from the window, running back through the house. He caught a flash of her through the den windows, headed toward the front
door. Okay, tactics. She would come around one side of the house or the other. But she would come after him and she would not stop until someone died.
Goddamn Kit. Ah, he couldn’t blame the werefox. She was young and ignorant, that was all. Didn’t understand the war between his kind and the hunters.
Half a dozen dogs—Moog’s unleashed mutts—came bounding around from the front of the house, barking up a storm and wagging their tails. They sensed a fight.
So did he, glancing toward the roof.
Jordan stood barefoot in black silk pajamas, the unsheathed katana flashing in her fists. “Demon! Repent, and may God have mercy on your soul! In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I will send you back to Hell!”
Enough of this shit. He spat. “You can’t kill me. I’m already dead.”
The hunter darted along the edge of the roof before leaping off. For a half-second, she tumbled through the air end over end, landing on her feet only ten yards away.
Time to see if she was as bright as she was brave. He darted forward, flinging another handful of dust at her eyes.
“Not that again,” she hissed, lashing out with her blade while shielding her eyes during the brief flurry.
Worth a try. He darted back, placing the nearest junk heap car between them. The dogs barked and ran in circles around them, but none interfered. They wouldn’t defend him. He wasn’t pack or lycan, only a weird-smelling guest they tolerated.
Jordan darted forward, sword held outward with a proper samurai grip. Damn straight she knew how to use it. How many of his kind had she killed with it? She might have twenty, thirty kills to her name. She robbed them of their immortality. That crime was somehow worse than ordinary murder. To kill a mortal is crime enough. To kill an immortal was an abomination.
With a snarl, he grabbed a loose cinderblock from a pile near the rusted-out Buick. Forty pounds at least, the concrete felt as light a baseball. He flung it at her head with underworld strength.
The katana whistled through the air and slashed through the cinderblock with an explosion of gray powder. Blue-white light sparked along the sword’s length during impact, shielding it from damage.
A holy blade! Bad news. “That won’t save you!”
She came on, holding the sword up like a cross, a ward against the undead, her gorgeous features twisted into a mask of anger. “Deus vult!”
Two could play the rage game. He seized the ragged end of the Buick as if it were a mattress and flung the back end of it toward her.
With another somersault leap, she cleared the car and dropped a few feet away. The sword flashed upward as she charged—it sang out, grazing his arm, drawing blood—sweet blood.
It stung like a lash. He grunted, cracking his elbow in her solar plexus. “Bitch!”
Making an “Oof!” sound she buckled, body propelled backward. Her sword flew from her grasp as she lost the handle; at the same time, her body skittered across the loose gravel. In the background, a lycan let out a sharp series of whistles.
Finish her—now. With a snarl, he leaped forward, fangs dropping as he loosed a primal scream of triumph. The reek of her warm, living body hung in the air—the sweat, the musk, the unwashed after-scent of sex. The anger in her blood would taste sweet, like a jolt of caffeine. That Kit would hate him for killing her friend didn’t even factor. Red filled his sight, bloodlust rising.
The dogs mobbed him, angry mouths biting onto his pant legs and jacket, hauling him to the ground. Several other dogs grabbed his enemy, dragging her in the other direction. Moog and the other lycans ran up, shouting at them to stop.
Shaking with anger, he flung off the dogs one by one. One pit-bull mix wouldn’t get off his boot until he gave her a triple shake. Poison dripped from his fangs, so near the kill only to be denied. For the moment.
Jordan scrambled to her feet only to end up in Brickhouse’s powerful grip. Kit was screaming at the slayer. Moog—still in human form—ran right up and got in his face. “Down, boy! Get a grip!”
There was no speaking to the beast. Dreck snarled, snapping his fangs. The lycan clocked him in the jaw. It sent him flying back into the Buick and dropped him to the ground. The dogs swarmed over him again, preventing him from rising. Half a dozen growling mouths gripped his pants and jacket, holding him in place. The dogs snarled, worrying his boots and pants, well-trained enough not to break skin. But the lycans commanded their total loyalty—at a word, they would rip open his throat and every artery.
They could try. He could take down a pack of dogs, maybe both lycans too. Time to fight, to die if need be.
Moog retrieved the slayer’s katana, waved it around. “Nobody fights on my turf without my permission. Nobody kills on my pack’s hunting grounds. Nobody breaks the laws of guest-right in my own fucking den. Am I fucking clear, you batshit piece of fuck?”
His head still spun, but the blood-rage had quieted. The crimson haze receded to a dull pink. “Call off your dogs!”
The brawny lycan ran up and waved the sword. “I said, am I fucking clear?”
Fuck. He raised both hands. “Clear as day. It’s cool.”
Moog whistled and the dogs backed off, all tail-wags and excitement again. For all they knew, it was another game. Moog whirled on the hunter. “Hey, hyoo-mon. You want to travel with my circus? Then you play by pack rules.”
Jordan’s eyes never left the sword, six inches from her heart as she thrashed against Brickhouse’s iron grip. In his werebear form, Brick was stronger than any human no matter how much they trained. At length, she stopped struggling. “Okay, I’m chill.”
The big red lycan let her go. The dogs backed off, and Moog lowered his sword. “Good, that’s settled. Shake hands and make up.”
Like fuck. It was one thing not to kill the slayer—or get decapitated by her sword—in the next five minutes, but shake her hand? “No way, Moog. She’s a slayer, a stone-cold killer. How many vampires have you murdered, butcher?”
A warning growl from Moog and his mutts ended the tirade. Brickhouse flashed filthy, yellow bear teeth.
This could get even uglier, fast. He leaned against the Buick, patting his pockets until he found a cigar and lighter.
“No,” said Moog, with a warning gesture.
Boss man knew what the cigars meant. Damn. He tucked the cigar back in the breast pocket, but palmed the lighter.
“How about you, slayer?” Moog asked, wheeling on Jordan. “Will you keep the peace?”
Jordan took a step back. “Look, Mr. Moog, I appreciate the hospitality. But I can’t live under the same roof with one of those things. We’re blood enemies.”
Moog ranted on. “Kit, why the fuck didn’t you warn anyone about this? Are you stupid?”
Kit squirmed back and forth. “Okay, wow. Look. I’m sorry!”
The ringmaster raged. “You’re useless, absolutely useless. Look, you couldn’t be more useless if you were a cinderblock. Actually, a chunk of rock is more useful than you because it doesn’t invite deadly enemies to my circus!”
Kit whimpered. “It won’t happen again!”
“You bet your ass it won’t! You’re fired!”
The kitsune’s tail and ears drooped. “Moog! Wait!”
“I said you’re fired! Pack up your shit and get out!”
“Hey,” said Brickhouse with a snarl, still clutching Jordan. “You can’t fire my bitch.”
Moog snarled back. Brick shoved past Jordan all a sudden and the two lycans circled each other. Every dog in the yard snarled, too, hackles raised and teeth showing. But they didn’t interfere. Moog was the alpha and Brick the number two in their world. The lycans and their beasts shared so much.
Put that to one side, though. He kept his eyes on Jordan, the real threat. Without her sword, she was less dangerous but still an enemy. Her sword twirled in Moog’s fingers as the ringmaster waved it at the other shifter.
Kit thrust herself between the two men. “Stop it, you two! Please! We’re a pack!”
> Moog’s circus breaking up wouldn’t help find his sire’s killer. Neither would making peace with a vampire hunter. He leaped atop the Buick and shouted down at them. “Hey, Moog. Leave Kit alone. I’ll quit.”
The lycans stared at him. Even Jordan’s head snapped to attention. Moog lowered the sword, a baffled look on his angry face. “What are you talking about, Dreck?”
“Your precious guest-rights, Moog. I’m respecting them. I’m a guest, that hunter’s a guest. I won’t fight her on your turf—but I won’t breathe the same air as her. I’ll come back when she’s gone.” He leaped off the Buick, turned toward the illimitable desert.
“Wait!” Moog started after him. “I need you, Dreck!”
“I’m leaving, Moog. And when I return, I want my answers.” He shot one last look over his shoulder to make sure nobody followed, then stalked off into the dry, endless flats.
Chapter 7: El Arroyo
Jordan
“Can I have my sword back?” It was a fair question. She asked it in as calm a voice possible, considering her heart still pounded a hundred miles a minute. A vampire! She’d fucked a vampire! She needed to kill Dreck. More than anything, she needed to kill that bloodsucking bastard, and for that, she needed the katana.
That katana belonged to her: forged by a master in Kyoto, balanced for her size, weight, and height. The Order of Silence presented it to her on Easter of her eighteenth year, a symbol of her standing. They sent her on her first assassination soon after. Some small town way up on the north end of California, to scrub some dude at a music festival. That was hard. The guy looked so human, it felt wrong. And what if she stabbed the wrong man? Yet she did it anyway, dragged the body out into the woods, watched it turn to dust with the rising sun.
Her first kill. First of dozens—too many to count. Almost all done with that sword. Only that single photograph of her family meant more now than that katana. The blade might even mean more at this point to be honest.
The big lycan named Moog did not give the sword back. And he was a lycan, even if he remained in human form. Her tingling spine told her that. Light brown hair shaved to a buzz cut, a welter of military and other tattoos decorating his skin. That one—he was Moog. Dreck had described each member of the pack last night.
