by Alix Adale
“See anything?” Jordan asked.
He moved his jacket to the other shoulder, shielding his eyes as he stared across the plain. A plume of thick, black smoke rose from the roof of Moog’s hideaway. Someone might be cooking up a supper. But given Kit’s phone call, the odds favored some bikers burning the whole place down.
His eyes shifted to the spirit side, silvering and sharpening focus. The distant figures resolved into a couple of motorcycles circling the outbuildings. Others reeled around the yard, drunk and smashing things. The red and white patches on their leather vests read Blood Moon M.C.
So their last audience had shown up, looking for payback. They were tearing apart the camper-trailer. Several dead dogs lay unmoving in the yard. The Blazer was missing. With any luck, Moog, Kit, and Brick had escaped unharmed. “Use your binoculars.”
She did. “It’s like a scene out of Fury Road. Now what?”
“We think of a plan.”
“We?”
“Two of us—plus Mustard—against some bikers. With a little teamwork, we can knock those guys off, steal a bike, and catch up with Moog. What do you say?”
Jordan ground her teeth together, a tense, scraping sound. “Fine. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“You’re spouting clichés, woman.”
“Don’t you ‘woman’ me, son.”
After hissing at Mustard to keep quiet, they circled around the plain toward a ridge overlooking the hideaway. They stretched out prone on the ridge and from that vantage point, stared at the mayhem a quarter mile away. He used his spirit eyes again while she watched through her binoculars.
Most of the Blood Moon M.C. bikers zoomed off, but two remained, both in human form. One splashed gasoline and propane all around the ranch house and the outbuildings. It looked like Moog’s hideaway was about to burn. The second biker butchered the dogs, taking haunches of meat and throwing them into an old cooler. A single motorcycle remained, a massive Harley with a sidecar.
“Sweet Jesus,” Jordan said. “They’re going to eat those dogs.”
“Don’t you know? That’s what bad lycans do. The worst ones turn cannibal, eating humans or even each other. It’s the nature of the beast.”
“Now who’s bringing the clichés?”
“Touché. The point is, vampires aren’t cannibals, Jordan. Not often, anyway.”
“Why eat meat when you can drink blood?” She snapped the binocs back to the scene. “What’s the plan?”
Good question for once. His eyes grew sore, and he took the binoculars. They worked better, anyway. “If I had a hunting rifle, we’d be home free.”
“If I had my katana, you’d be dead.”
“Will you stop with the death threats already? They’re getting old.”
Surprisingly, she loosed a major sigh. “Sorry. Let’s get through this as best we can. Truce?”
“Truce.” He stuck out his hand, unsure if she’d take it. She did. Her grasp was firm and confident, warm and human. Tense, but with a trace of the softness from the night before. He was reluctant to let go, but after a moment, their hands withdrew.
Using the desert sand to draw a map, he proposed a plan. “I’m thinking this is what we’ll do…”
Mustard sprinted down the hill toward the lycan butchering meat. The biker didn’t even notice until the dog’s angry teeth shattered his wrist. He kicked and swore, dropping the machete. The second biker tossed down his gas can and rushed to attack.
That’s when Jordan struck. She stepped around the corner, throwing a rock at the bikers. It struck one in the shoulder. It did no damage but got their attention. The bikers snarled, ignoring the dog and heading for her.
Way to go, Jordan. He watched from his vantage point under the trailer, waiting for the best moment to strike.
Jordan backed around the disabled camper-trailer. Boots pounded gravel as the bikers chased after.
When the first biker rounded the corner, he snapped out a hand and grabbed the boot. Gleaming fangs sunk into the man’s ankle.
The biker collapsed at once, kicking and screaming. The other biker started shouting, but both Jordan and Mustard jumped that one.
Blood. Sweet, precious blood—it tasted so delicious, raw from the source. For too long he’d been surviving on wild antelope or butcher’s blood bought by the circus. But blood, hyoo-mon blood, even with that salty, lycan flavor, tasted ever so sweet. Lycans in human form didn’t taste too different from Homo sapiens. Even other vampires didn’t, all having sprung from the same source.
His victim delivered a sharp kick to the face, tearing the bleeding leg free. With a push, the biker scrambled up only to topple over a half-second later, unable to stand on a leg with a ruptured tendon and bleeding artery.
That would never do. The meal had only begun. He crawled atop the man, pressing his mouth to the pumping artery as the man died. Only after he caught Jordan staring with revulsion did he end the feast. It would sustain him for a couple days. “Where’s number two?”
Jordan pointed without a word. The second biker lay sprawled a dozen yards away, throat and ankles torn out by Mustard’s fangs. Half a dozen pocket-knife wounds crisscrossed his filthy t-shirt.
“Good.” He scrambled to his feet. “Grab what you need and we’ll get out of here. Food, weapons, whatever.”
She grunted an assent, revulsion showing across her face. If her horror compelled her to attack, this might be the moment. Her dark brown eyes stared him down.
Was it so horrible? She knew what he was. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, almost daring her to say something about his feeding.
She didn’t. “We need a vehicle, but someone stole my Blazer.”
Good point. They circled the hideaway, looking for other bikers or vehicles, but there were none. The camper-trailer’s wheels had been slashed and the other rusting hulks scattered around the lot would never run again. Without the camper-trailer or Jordan’s Blazer, the Harley was the only set of wheels. “We ride.”
Her gaze followed his to the motorcycle. “That thing? I’m not riding in the sidecar.”
“No, Mustard and the bags better ride there.”
“You expect me to ride bitch?”
Letting a vampire slayer sit behind him on the back of the motorcycle was tempting fate. He rubbed his jaw, considering. “No. I want you in front of me with your hands busy. You know how to ride a motorcycle?”
She scoffed. “I’m Ordo Silentii. ‘Course I can ride a bike.”
Well, well. Good to know the name of her secret club. File that away somewhere tight. “Prove it.”
Chapter 9: Highway Star
Jordan
The Harley throbbed between her legs. A powerful man sat behind her, his arms wrapped around her torso. His chest pressed against her back. This was the vacation she wanted: the open road, no cares, no worries, good sex. It should’ve been perfect.
Perfectly disgusting was more like it. Touching Dreck made her queasy. He was a monster and having some visceral attraction to him after making love last night made his monstrousness all the more horrifying. Remember how he’d killed and fed on that biker at the hideaway. Remember that instead of the lean, hard body from last night, that powerful force between her thighs. Picture instead the fiend bent over a corpse, drinking from a gushing vein. That was the true Dreck, what he would do to her if he could, what he still might try. Never forget what a monster he was.
Mustard sat in the side-car, tucked between the duffel bag, Dreck’s backpack, and gear salvaged from the hideaway. They’d scrounged up some groceries, dog food, a cooler full of blood packs for the monster, and a road atlas. The Blood Moon lycans had ripped off the rest, including Moog’s gun collection. Her katana had vanished too, meaning either Moog still had it—or the Blood Moon bikers had stolen it. Either way, she was going to this Firewater Dam rally and getting it back, lycans or no lycans, Dreck or no Dreck.
She shifted the bike up a gear, passing a lagging semi-truck on th
e two-lane, open highway. The wind felt great against her face, her body, scouring the dust, the shame, the filth of the vampire away. Yet no matter how fast the bike moved, his heavy presence clung to her back.
So far, he’d kept his word. He might even prove useful in getting the katana back. She would honor the truce, for now. But the moment he broke faith—it was only a matter of time—then she would cut off his head. With any luck. It was a crazy situation, but one of them would die before this party ended. Pray to God it’s him.
They rolled over the Nevada border into eastern Oregon, taking second-rate roads toward Idaho and beyond. The Firewater Dam rally was in western Montana, assuming Dreck knew the way and told the truth, which wasn’t at all certain. Ingrid had mentioned the rally too, so the place must exist. God, but Ingrid better be okay. The werefox was about her last friend in the world.
They hit US 95-N early in the afternoon and their pace picked up. The blue sky vaulted overhead, shorn of any clouds. Across the Idaho border, she stopped at a gas station. She filled the tank while he went inside, paid cash.
Leave him. Leave him now, let him get his own bloody ass up to the rally. The thought tempted her. But she didn’t know how to get to Firewater Dam. He kept that knowledge to himself. She couldn’t go searching western Montana for it. That place was huge and full of mountains.
Dreck emerged from the Chevron Mini-Mart with a spinach salad, a two-liter Mountain Dew, and a bottle of red wine.
What was he doing? She screwed the gas cap back in. “If you think I’m getting drunk, think again.”
“It’s for me. The other shit’s for you. You said you liked spinach salad last night, right? Here you go, Popeye.”
“Well, yeah.” With reluctance, she took the food. Telling him little details about herself: favorite color, odd foods she liked it—it felt wrong, him knowing all that. What she looked like naked. What she liked in bed. Ugh. Block that out.
As she ate, he laid out the rest of the journey, using an old-fashioned paper map. “We’ll take the 55 into Boise, then the 84 southeast out of town. When we get to—”
“Dreck.”
“What?”
“It’s a long way still. Where we gonna sleep?”
His finger followed highways all the way up to Bozeman, Montana. Dreck’s finger moved back down to Idaho. “You’re right, let’s not travel after dark. One of these small towns here, we’ll pull off and find a motel or a campground. You game?”
So. The lycan biker rally must be around Bozeman. That was a starting point if worse came to worse. Did he expect a hunter to go back on her word? She scowled. “I’m game.”
The salad and soft drink helped. A few hours later the sun was setting as she pulled up in front of a nondescript motel outside a two-bit town. Dreck went inside and paid cash money for the room.
Might as well be useful. She gathered trash from the motorcycle, taking it inside.
Mustard whimpered from her perch in the sidecar.
“Stay girl. Guard the bags.”
The dog yipped in understanding. These freaky lycan dogs acted so clever. Mustard couldn’t be an actual lycan in animal form, could she? No, Dreck would have said something. Besides, the lore said lycans came only from wild, mammalian predators. They didn’t stem from domesticated animals like cats and dogs, or prey like squirrels and jackrabbits, or even mythical creatures like dragons. According to the Order’s Malleus Maleficarum—the updated, modern version—lycans sprang from wolves, bears, lions, foxes, and other predators. Well, whatever. She stepped into the motel office, toting the trash.
“You two have a nice stay, you hear?” said a heavyset clerk at the front desk. The woman handed over an old-fashioned metal key on a homemade wooden keychain. The number 11 was branded into the pine.
“Thanks,” said Dreck, with a warm smile and a wink. Had he used an Enthralling Eye on the clerk? It was possible, but he’d never mentioned that ability. Then again, he’d been cagey about his talents. According to the lore, most vampires couldn’t mesmerize anyone. It took a certain level of supernatural power and a predisposition toward persuasive charm to acquire that skill. He hadn’t tried it on her yet, so odds were he was no mesmerist. But he could walk in the sun unharmed, just like Malmardane. Weird.
The desk clerk beamed back, impressed by the good-looking stranger. If the woman only knew the truth, that smile would turn into a scream. Dumping the trash, she followed Dreck back outside. He unlocked the door to Number 11 and they dragged their bags inside. Mustard, wagging her tail, strolled right in like she owned the place.
She shot him a questioning look. “They allow dogs?”
Dreck laughed. “Why not? Did you see the parking lot? This place is empty. Three other rooms rented, tops.”
True that. She’d counted the cars too, done a similar evaluation—part of the training. In some ways, he wasn’t different. But in the ways that counted. Oh dear. “No funny stuff.”
He shot her a look then, a hurt showing for a second before he lapsed back into his guarded, wary attitude. “On my word of honor.”
Yeah, right. But she bit her tongue on any sarcastic reply. The way he’d said it sounded so soft and distant, like he meant it. Whatever. Vampire problems were not her problems. “You need to piss? Do it now. I call first shower.”
“I’m fine.” He sat down on one of the twin beds, examining the atlas.
Curious, she lingered in the bathroom door. “Do vampires piss?”
“I thought you were an expert.”
“Not in every detail.”
“It’s red as blood.”
Her stomach twisted. “That’s nasty as fuck.”
“I’ll flush.”
After the shower, she sat on her bed in a fresh pair of jeans and a U.C.S.B. t-shirt, dining on a mishmash of canned food and the last of her Mountain Dew.
Dreck sipped the wine with care, showing no obvious signs of drunkenness. He also went outside to puff on a cigar from time to time, sniffing the air like a lycan.
Mustard sat in the armchair by the door, head trained on the window, as if hoping Moog or one of the others would walk in any minute. Poor dog—pack dead or missing. Mustard had eaten little of her food and from time to time whined. They took turns petting the dog, giving her reassuring scratches behind the ear.
It was early evening, too soon to sleep, but once again there was no lore to study or reports to prepare. “Mind if I watch some TV?”
He tossed the remote onto her bed. “Be my guest.”
A quick surf up and down the channel showed almost nothing on. They settled on History Channel’s Ancient Aliens and agreed that it was bullshit (Dreck called it ‘batshit’ for some reason). The conversation inched forward from there. By not looking at him and employing a bit of selective memory, it was an almost ordinary conversation with the man she’d enjoyed the night before—and not the secret fiend within.
“Why are you at Moog’s Circus?” she asked at last, her hand buried deep in a bag of potato chips. “You’re a vampire. Vampires live in cities, lycans live in the country. You’re on their turf. They hate your kind. I don’t get it.”
He rolled over on his bed, facing her. “You almost sound friendly.”
Not in a million years. She flinched. “Only curious.”
He turned away. “Right. I’m looking for my sire’s killer.”
“Was it Moog?”
“Nope. Least, I don’t think so. He was there the night it all went down, seven years ago, but he won’t talk about it. Been trying to get him to open up, but it ain’t easy. He’s an asshole.”
“Why don’t you beat it out of him? That’s the vampire way.”
He didn’t answer a moment, staring at the muted TV screen. “We’re humans underneath, not demons. Don’t expect you to understand.”
Maybe he had a point, maybe not. But did Dreck know about Ingrid’s past in the Order? Oh shit. “It wasn’t Ingrid, if that’s what you’re thinking. Seven years ago she was with
me in Japan. And she never made it to hunter apprentice. They kicked her out before she finished.”
“I know it wasn’t Ingrid. Or Brick for that matter. He wasn’t in Moog’s pack back then.”
Ingrid seemed safe, but what other suspects could there be? She tried fishing. “Your sire’s dead? Does that make you a rogue? I’ve never heard of the House of Dreck.”
“There’s no House of Dreck, but yes, I have a clan. But don’t ask, ‘cuz I’m not telling.”
“I figured as much.”
“What about you, Jordan? What are you running from?”
Oh no. She wasn’t going there, not with this guy, this not-a-guy, this creature. “Forget it, Dreck.”
“Why’d you become a slayer?”
“Drop it.”
“Fair enough.” He swung his legs off the bed, heading to the cooler to retrieve a bag of medical supply blood. It looked like a loose IV drip bag, not even frozen, kept chilled with some bags of ice and beer in the Coleman. The crimson life sloshed around. It should spoil in a few days—and then what would he eat?
That was his problem. Their talk tapered off until they ended up watching a horror flick called The Hills Have Eyes. Then—somehow, against all her training and every instinct in her body—she fell asleep with a centuries-old vampire sitting on the next bed over, petting the dog.
A good-looking fiend she’d slept with and formed a truce with, but a demon all the same.
A single, worried bark from Mustard woke her in the night. A strong, cold hand covered her mouth. She sat up in fright, trying to shake free. Spiders ran up and down her back, dancing on her spine. Her earlobes tingled—burned. The enemy was near!
“Shh!” came a commanding voice, hissing in her ear. Dreck’s eyes loomed large and luminous in the dark. The dog growled and crouched near the door, hackles rising.
Something was outside. She nodded and Dreck released his hand. Slipping out of the bed, she fumbled for her pocketknife on the nightstand. One lousy pocketknife! Why didn’t she insist on stopping for a proper weapon at a sporting goods store? Even a hunting knife or bow and arrow would do the trick. A crossbow would be ideal.
