by Alix Adale
Dreck.
Fuck Dreck. Why did her senses fail to kick in? Why didn’t a creepy-crawly spider walk down her spine in the presence of obvious, odious, nauseating undeath? How could he walk in the sun? First Malmardane, now him? What was going on?
Goddamn, to have kissed—bedded—that, that, that unspeakable thing—was infuriating. To have invited it to bed. To let it put its demonic part inside her. It hadn’t even used a condom! The fuck did she do any of that for? She wanted to bathe in a thousand gallons of Holy Water, seek immediate absolution and confession. The impurities would sap her vital, holy strength. It was spiritual treason. It was almost as bad as Malmardane.
That sword was necessary to cut off Dreck’s head. By fire, by stake, by sword—those are the ways to kill a vampire. Cut off its head, demolish its heart, or burn it to ashes. Even regular people who considered vampires a bunch of superstitious trash knew that much. Popular culture preserved pieces of the lore.
Moog spun on her, a lupine snarl across his human face. Somehow, it made him more savage than the other lycans in their beast forms. “You. You chased off the best damn draw my circus has had in years. Years. You know how much money you cost me, hyoo-mon?”
What an ugly word, such a twisted pronunciation of ‘human.’ Moog used the word like a club, like a slur. She sunk back from the man’s rage.
The vampire had stalked off into the desert—a dark, dwindling speck she kept her eye on, just in case he tried doubling back. Such a creature could never be trusted. From Malmardane’s frying pan, she’d fallen into this lycan fire. Hot damn, but she sure could use some tact right about now.
Facing Moog, she tried a reasoned tone. “I’m sorry he left. Give me my sword back and I’ll get in my Blazer and leave. You’ll never see me again. Deal?”
Moog thrust the sword into the dirt, point first. His lycan strength sunk it into the dry, parched earth halfway to the hilt. The black handle bobbed back and forth, blade quivering. “Here’s a better idea. You go find that blood-drinking son-of-a-bitch and bring him back. Then you can have your pig-sticker.”
No, that was impossible. She searched her friend’s face. “Ingrid, tell the nice man I can’t do that.”
Ingrid wasn’t having it. “Jordan, please!” All a sudden, the other woman shifted out of her fur-covered were-fox form, back to human. Maybe she thought she’d be more persuasive that way. Big eyes pleaded. “Please, Jordan. The circus is all I’ve got. You owe me a favor, right?”
“Ingrid! You were in the Order. You know why we do what we do. No compromises with the devil. This is the path of the righteous, the cause of the just. I can’t break my vows.”
“But you do break your vows!” The lycan clenched her fists. “You drink, you smoke, you have sex outside marriage—you did it last night, so don’t give me this unbreakable vows shit!”
The idiocy! She flung up a hand. “A few minor sins are nothing compared to some demon walking the Earth. It’s my sacred duty to destroy evil.”
“I’m evil. I’m a lycan. They kicked me out of the Order because of it.”
“That’s different!”
“How’s it different, Jordan? How?”
What was Ingrid’s problem? “Lycans are born human.”
“And vampires aren’t? You’re not stupid, Jordan.” Ingrid stepped closer, grabbing her hand. “Dreck is as human as you are. He never asked for this life. He’s not a monster. He’s tough but he’s sweet and a gentleman.”
That was ridiculous. Jordan stared at her friend. “A sweet gentleman? Are you on drugs?”
“The crowds scream at him every week and he ignores it all, fighting through the pain,” said Ingrid, thumping her small chest. “His name is George Dreck and—and—I love him!” With a sudden shake of terror, the kitsune dashed into the house.
What the hell? Ingrid in love with that thing? She could only shake her head. Vampires and lycans were not the same. Every doctrine of the Order said so. She fumed at Ingrid, shocked by her friend’s abandonment of their creed and all good sense.
Brickhouse, the big lycan, growled at Ingrid’s back. That was supposed to be his girlfriend after all.
Moog’s fingers stayed wrapped around the handle of her katana. A grin played across his lips as if all this shit was entertaining. He snorted. “What’s it going to be, hyoo-mon?”
A fast kick might knock him off her sword, but what about the others? Ingrid had run off, but there was still Brickhouse, plus the half-dozen dogs darting around, keyed up to defend their master. If these were vampires, she’d attack without hesitation, even without her sword. She knew how to fight those things. But lycans? How old—how strong? Did they have weapons? Too many unknowns.
It sounded like the worst decision possible, but what else could she do? “I’ll try and bring him back. But how do I find him in the desert? He took off, fast.”
For answer, Moog whistled at his dog pack. One of the mutts came bounding up, head craned upward, tail wagging with excitement. The dog was off-yellow in color, maybe a spaniel-retriever mix. “Go,” Moog said to the dog, his voice an almost incomprehensible growl. “Mustard find. Mustard bring. Go. Get Dreck.”
At least the dog would help. She turned to the cabin. “I need shoes and my binoculars.”
Moog grunted an assent and she went inside and dressed. Then, with the dog running on ahead and sniffing the ground, she marched into the desert.
She and the dog walked for almost an hour, Mustard leading the way. Dreck’s footprints made following him easy at first, but as they crossed over stretches of bare rock she welcomed the dog’s talent. With only her pocketknife, she missed the familiar weight of the katana across her back. Maybe this is how it would end: with a dog and a pocketknife in a trackless desert. Depending on his age and abilities, Dreck could overpower her with ease.
By mid-morning, the dog headed toward a long, dry arroyo—a deep, narrow canyon carved out of the wasteland by an ancient waterway. Now dry, the cliffs proved too steep for Mustard, who stood on the edge, barking across the gap.
A dark figure sat on the opposite cliff, smoking a cigar and watching their approach with casual nonchalance. When she stopped on this side of the narrow valley, he rose to his feet.
“You hunting me, killer?” His shouts echoed across the arroyo.
Damn well ought to be. It burned her up to speak with this thing. “No! I’m asking you to come back.”
“No fucking way.” He spat over the edge. “Where’s your sword, killer?”
Couldn’t blame him for refusing. “Moog took my sword hostage. You return, I get it back.”
“Your sword is worth more than your vows?”
“I can’t fulfill my vows without it. But I won’t use it on you. I swear unto God. Come back with me, I get my sword, I leave. We forget we ever met. Deal?”
“I don’t deal with murderers.”
The nerve of this blood-drinking monster to call her a killer. “What about you, blood-drinker? Your kind has ravaged this world for centuries! Millennia!”
“Hey! Vampires are not demons. The Blooded are not The Damned.”
Of course they weren’t, everyone knew that. The Blooded, The Damned, and The Wild—the lycans—were three separate orders of supernatural beings. The first two represented irredeemable corruption, but the Church classified the lycans as fairy-folk. Lycans were dangerous, neutral, best avoided, but not outright evil. The old adage ran true: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. “You drink human blood, Dreck!”
“You eat meat and drive a fucking SUV.”
“Don’t bring some green shit into this!”
“You want me to prove it to you? Prove I’m not a monster?”
Hah! What a laugh. She threw her hands on her hips. “Yes! I would like that!”
“Great. I’ll come over and show you.”
Err, somehow, that didn’t sound so good. Without her sword, she felt naked. “How?”
“By going back to the circus. I’m taking
you at your word. That you’ll get your sword and leave.”
That sounded—almost reasonable. It’s what she wanted. “Fine. I’m waiting. No tricks.”
He lowered himself off the sheer cliff with appalling ease and crossed the narrow floor of the arroyo. Reaching the near side, he sprang upward, gripping fragile rock outcroppings with superhuman strength.
A chill tip-toed down her spine—the spider was back. Why oh why hadn’t it warned her before? She jerked a few steps backward, ready to run. But she knew it was too late. This vampire was old, maybe a century or more. When they got that old, they got strong, fast, and dangerous. And smart. Otherwise, they wouldn’t last. Aged vampires were survivors.
Without her katana, she had no chance. Her hand worked the pocketknife in her jacket pocket, unclasping the blade. She pulled out the knife, taking a few more steps backward. “I’m warning you, George or Dreck or whatever your name is. Don’t try shit.”
Dreck scrambled up the cliff. Crossing the arroyo had taken him less than two minutes. He cracked his neck, watching her with suspicious eyes. “I’m not a monster. I never asked for this life. Someone did it to me. Over the years, I’ve learned to control the bloodlust. What I am—what I have become—I don’t know.” He put a finger skyward. “But it’s not for you to judge, and not your dead God either.”
Like hell. Time to educate this creature. Her mouth opened but before the first word came out, her phone rang. “How am I getting service in this wasteland?”
“Moog has a pirate staff on the water tower.”
“A what?”
“You wanna maybe answer that? It’s gotta be one of the lycans.”
Damn him. She ripped out the phone. Ingrid’s number. “Hello?”
“Jordan!” Roaring engines almost drowned out the kitsune’s voice. “Did you find him?”
“Yeah, he’s here. Why? What’s going on?”
“Blood Moon M.C.!”
“What? Girl, slow down. I don’t understand.”
“Give me Dreck!”
Damn. She flung the phone at him. “Ingrid wants to talk to you.”
“Yeah? … Uh huh. … Oh, shit. … Firewater Dam? … All right, meet you there.” He hung up the phone, tossed it back. It dropped low and she bent to catch it in mid-air then regretted that at once—he could’ve kicked her in the head or jumped her in that moment.
But he didn’t.
“What this about a bloody moon?” she demanded, standing up straight.
“A gang of lycan bikers from Black Rock Desert. We gave them a show a few days ago, but Moog rigged the betting. They’re pissed off and raiding the hideaway. Kit and the others drove off. We’re supposed to meet up at Firewater Dam.”
“Firewater Dam? What’s that?”
“A biker rally up in Montana.”
“Where’s my sword?”
He shrugged. “How the fuck do I know? Maybe it’s at the ranch. Maybe Moog took it.”
Our Father, who art in Heaven… She wanted to sit down on a rock and pound her head in. What in the world just happened? “This is my vacation! A spiritual retreat, a chance to get my head screwed on straight.”
Dreck laughed. The bastard actually laughed. “Nothing’s easy with lycans. Come on, let’s get back to the ranch.”
The ranch—her Chevy Blazer. Her sword. The duffel bag. And the last photograph of the Rivers family. All those years gone, someone else’s life, a collection of memories that didn’t fit anymore. “Fine. But keep your distance.”
Mustard ran ahead, tail wagging. She knew the way. Dreck stayed put, staring at her. “Put that pocketknife away first.”
What was the use? She did.
Chapter 8: Road Warriors
Dreck
Nobody wanted a murdering psycho-bitch whack-job yammering on about God. A typical vampire would kill her now and bury her body in the desert for the vultures and scorpions. But that would make facing Kit again impossible.
Hell, who was he kidding? Murder was out of the question, he wasn’t a killer by choice, only in wartime and self-defense. The war with slayers never ended, but he always honored his word. The truce would stand.
Easier to ignore her then. If they didn’t talk, she couldn’t call him a monster. So he walked in silence back to Moog’s ranch. The sooner he saw the back of Jordan Rivers, the better. Not meaning that fine ass of hers.
It was a fine ass, no harm admitting that. It was rounded in the right places, urging him to do the wrong things. The sex last night exceeded great, approaching perfection. Every minute had been lovely: going down, getting off, entering her, entering her again. That second time, she’d writhed atop him, cowgirl-style as they banged away the night.
No denying she’d been a fantastic lay, the best in recent memory. But it was only sex. Sex didn’t always mean something. Like with Cherise. His clan mate had seduced him after a training session. Call it a moment of weakness. But he shut that affair down, not wanting anything to do with a cold manipulator. Having Cherise in the clan was bad enough. Jordan was wrong about vampires in general, but some were monsters. Same as people, in that regard. But you didn’t wipe out the entire human species to rid the world of a few bad apples. Vampires deserved the same treatment.
Cherise was only a fledgling, more or less harmless. More worrisome was Ursula. What did the Queen of Dagon know about Ferdinand’s murder? He came to the circus for answers, but every day pulled him deeper into shit that had nothing to do with his sire’s death.
“Tell me something,” Jordan said all a sudden. She wore a pair of binoculars around her neck, but apart from the pocketknife lacked weapons. Now she clutched a fist-sized rock in one hand.
Shit. Needed to be more careful. In his musing, he’d dropped his guard. Not that he feared an almost-unarmed slayer, but as one who trained others, he ought to heed his own lessons. “First, put the rock down.”
“What? It’s for rattlesnakes.”
“You worry me more than some snake.”
“Fine.” She flung it away. “Tell me. How do you walk in the sun?”
Heh. She didn’t know about nanorians. Good. The holy orders could burn before they learned the secrets of the Kingdom of Dagon. “Because I am the god of hellfire.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You got that right.”
“Is it magic? You got some amulet or something?”
That cut too close to the truth. The nanorian was the gemstone heart of a slain sun demon. It beat within his own chest between the aorta and left ventricle, guarding him against death by sunlight. “You’ve heard of vampires that can fly, or transform into bats, or become invisible?”
“Sure. A few elders gain strange powers as they age.”
“Yeah, and a few of us learn to walk in the sun.”
“Is it common? Can other vampires do it? What else can you do?”
For a deadly enemy, she asked a lot of questions. “Drop it.”
They lapsed into another silence. Not uncomfortable, perhaps, but not comfortable either. He didn’t trust this brainwashed serial killer any further than he could throw her, which was about forty feet.
Ahead, Mustard slowed her pace to a weary walk. The sun beat down overhead, relentless as it approached noontime. After another mile, Jordan spoke again. “Ingrid’s in love with you. She blurted it out after you took off.”
Heh. All those little looks, the pleading eyes. “I guessed as much.”
“What will you do about it?”
“Nothing. Good kid, but not my type.”
Jordan let out a breath, almost a sigh of relief. She fell silent.
Why had she been so tense? It couldn’t be jealousy, could it? Oh, wait. She didn’t want her friend mixed up with a hell-spawned monster. Reasonable, from her point of view. But the hypocrisy stung. He stared. “Your best friend is a werefox shifter, but because I’m Blooded, I’m an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”
“You nailed it.”
“You
know how lycans create more lycans, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. They’re born to a lycan parent and start turning in adolescence, some earlier, some later.” She seemed to warm to the topic. It was neutral ground. “I know because Ingrid started turning at the dojo. We were training together. I won’t say where.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.” But he knew. Blabbermouth Kit had blurted it out: Spirit Dragon Temple, in Japan. Wait, did this mean Kit used to be a vampire hunter too? Cute, fluffy Kit who liked everyone? Something was wrong with the world.
Jordan went on. “One night, Ingrid wakes up screaming. I rush across the hall and she’s covered with fine red fur. We freak out and call the monks. They called her a kitsune—some kinda Japanese spirit-animal. The Order dismissed her soon after. No lycans allowed.”
That sounded about right. “Life’s rough all over. My point, Miss Rivers, was that lycans have another way of making one of their own. They can turn folks with a bite. Get killed by a werewolf on a full moon and you too can rise from the dead as a shifter.”
“No thanks.”
He grinned. It was cruel, but this woman wanted to kill him. To hell with her feelings. “Go on, ask Kit. She’ll give you a big lycan hickey.”
“You were more charming last night, bat-man.”
“Jesus freak.”
“That’s weak sauce, George Dreck.”
A stretch of bare rock lay ahead with Moog’s hideaway on the horizon. Heat waves shimmered across the dry stone, distorting the distance.
He wanted a drink of blood—water—wine—anything at all. Vampirism did weird things to thirst, but a juicy snack walked beside him. She would taste so sweet. And what would that prove except that she was right? That he was a monster? Maybe it was true. He’d become a purposeless, aimless monster, caught up in the fool’s errand of finding his sire’s killer and not even accomplishing that.
Mustard growled, dropping to her haunches.
