Assassins Bite

by Mary Hughes

  Mist was fast, but only lasted seconds before the body’s natural shape reasserted itself. He snapped back within two blocks. He misted again, snapping back at the banks of the Meiers River. He ran through the running water, ignoring the buzz rattling his bones. On the other side, her distress was obvious with his first breath.

  She was hurt, and why the hell wasn’t he at her side yet? South one block. He misted again, too soon to hold well, and snapped whole when he slammed into the solid strength of a door. Dazed, he tried the knob.

  Locked. She was in the locked room. His hands flattened against the door and he tried to mist yet again, to stream underneath.

  But misting three times plus battling water had taken its toll. He stayed distressingly solid.

  Rage filled him at his inability to get to her, rash and uncontrollable. He broke down the thing between them.

  She looked up. She was fine.

  Relief coursed through him. He stood there and let it wash over him.

  Two women stared at him, Sunny and Elena Strongwell. He became aware of how strange it looked to have him break in like that, and it dawned on him just how rash and questionable all of his behavior was around Sunny. He didn’t understand any of it so he passed it off with a casual remark. That was that. Protector instinct satisfied.

  Despite knowing how oddly he was behaving, after Strongwell ordered him out, he stayed nearby. Near Sunny. He needed to with a fierce desire that went beyond rationality.

  He tucked himself into a shadowed corner of the police station and brooded, trying to understand this pull to be with the small, clunky cop. Generally he couldn’t get far enough away from anyone in authority.

  Then Sunny came into the hallway, her gait stiff, pained, and all thoughts dropped from his head except one—relieve her suffering.

  He followed her to the restroom to heal her with his saliva in the way of his kind. He touched his tongue to her skin, and…and…

  He really didn’t understand his need to pleasure her. His overwhelming compulsion to kiss her and touch her and feel her shatter under his hand.

  Didn’t stop him from doing it. From reveling in it.

  After, his own gait was stiff. Work would take care of that. He hobbled toward the Dawn barn.

  The cool night air eased him. He shook his head. He understood sex, but his encounter with Sunny was less like sex and more like…breathing. Absolutely necessary.

  As if she was his mate.

  He stopped. Everything, feet, breathing, even heart, on the cusp of forever…

  No. Couldn’t be. Because if his friend Ric was any indication, a vampire male mating a human female led to rapid impregnation. Children.

  He would not be a father.

  He crossed the street, fast, heedless of direction, his gliding feet flashing so swiftly that when they hit the edge of the curb they actually caused a spark. Pain lashed through his ankles.

  Gritting his teeth, he slowed down. Mate. Father. Was it so impossible? He tried imagining Sunny pregnant with his child, the baby born so tiny and perfect, a boy or girl to read to and play peek-a-boo with and love…

  Not for him. He’d be an awful father. It wasn’t like he had a lot of positive role models.

  Yet those few moments with Sunny teased him, with hazy memories of a different life, a life of sunshine and love. Stroking her flesh was like caressing soft tassels of ripe summer grain; her scent was like fresh rain. He closed his eyes and savored the memory of her in his arms. She wasn’t his mate, and yet there was this insistent tug to be with her. To embrace her and rub against her and sink his fangs into the sweet warm pulse in her neck…

  He stumbled. His eyes flew open. He was gliding up the stairs of the police station.

  What the fuck? He ought to be headed for DTL. Judging by the night sky, it was well after eleven. While many employers would be upset if he came in late, the folks at Dawn would be okay with it. They knew he was casual labor. Most of their drivers were; most of them were vampires too.

  Yet instead of going to work, he sank slowly to the top step and cupped his head in both hands. He was so fucked.

  He wondered briefly if he would have understood his feelings any better if he were aligned with the ancient vampire in Iowa. Kai Elias was purported to have wisdom like no other, although he shared it only sparingly.

  Aiden raised his head from his hands. He didn’t trust authorities and Elias, as leader of the Iowa Alliance, was authority with a capital A. Never again would Aiden put himself in the hands of another soul—outside of Ric who had proved himself in the crucible of Nosferatu’s hell.

  And, at one time, Eloise.

  But that answered his question about Sunny, didn’t it? His need for her…his desire for her, was just great sex. It had to be.

  I scuttled double-quick behind Dirk as my brother led me to the office Elena and I had used after Blackthorne broke the infirmary door.

  It wasn’t empty this time. Behind the tombstone nameplate sat a chunky forty-something of a man, his head both pumpkin round and pumpkin orange, courtesy of knockoff hair-in-a-can spray.

  Still, he was my superior officer. I snapped a salute. “Officer Sun-Hee Ruffles, reporting for duty, Captain Tight—” I almost pronounced it Tight-Ass. Blame my family, Uncle John this time. Talking about the captain, he’d call him that. Then he’d wink and say, “Though he prefers Tit-Us. Not much better, if you ask me.”

  A last minute heroic twist of my tongue turned it into “Tite-us”. To cover, I smiled inanely, pretending I wasn’t being intentionally insulting, only a Ruffles.

  Titus scowled. “About damned time. What were you doing so long in the bathroom, putting on your damned makeup?” Uncle John also said Tight-Ass’s voice went higher when he got stressed. The captain wasn’t quite soprano but I was in trouble.

  “Sir, I can explain.” I couldn’t, actually, but I would certainly try.

  “No excuses.” Tight-Ass slapped the desk. “I didn’t want to hire you. My budget isn’t a slush fund! But O’Rourkes carry some damned pull.” He rubbed his arm through his coat sleeve.

  Uncle John said Tight-Ass had been a bully as a kid. He’d shoved around Elena’s father but one day Patrick O’Rourke shoved back—and broke Tight-Ass’s arm. Apparently the memory still chafed.

  “Yes sir. No excuses.”

  He stopped jacking off his sleeve to stab a finger at me. “Let’s get one thing straight. I do not tolerate goofing off.” He said “goofing off” like it was worse than murder. “No one on my team goofs off.”

  “No sir.”

  “If I catch you, you will be disciplined. Harshly. Removal of gun, badge, etcetera, is the least of your punishments. Do you understand, Officer Ruffles?”

  “Yes sir!” I saluted so smartly I managed to put a dent in my forehead. I suddenly understood my brother better.

  Tight-Ass rubbed his sleeve absently. “O’Rourke—I mean, Strongwell brought you in as a beat cop. But I have another job for you. Sub-rosette, as is were.”

  “Sub rosa, yes sir. I know about keeping an eye on—the subject.” I winked.

  “You do?” He harrumphed. “Of course you do. And why shouldn’t you? She’s been acting strangely.”

  “She, sir? I mean, yes sir. She.”

  But he was muttering to himself, cranking his fist along his forearm. “I understand her keeping an eye on Nieman’s new owner—that woman and her hotpants lederhosen creep me out—but why is she so interested in Redfox Village? And what has she got going in some tiny burg in northern Wisconsin? She’s made fifteen calls there last week alone.”

  “Uh…Detective Strongwell, sir?”

  His eyes focused on me and he stopped cranking. “Well of course Strongwell! Who else would I mean but Strongwell? Watch her, Ruffles. And keep your nose clean. No more goofing off, got it?”

  “I was
n’t—”

  “No back chat!” He trilled at me like a stressed piccolo. “You’re dismissed.”

  Aiden Blackthorne, having firmly decided that his interest in Sunny was just sexual, rose from the steps of the police station. He generally didn’t lie to himself but if he stopped to figure this out, he had a feeling he’d be locked in thought for a while.

  As he walked, he remembered something that bothered him. Sunny’s memory hadn’t been wiped, dangerous. Civilized vampires did not wage war on innocent humans, an unspoken agreement enforced by blood. If Sunny knew, she was vulnerable.

  Damn it, Elena’s master vampire husband hadn’t done his job. Aiden snapped out his phone and punched redial.

  “Strongwell.” The voice was female.

  “Why didn’t Bo erase Sunny?”

  “He did. He phoned her last night and used his best v-guy voice. I was as surprised as you that she still remembered everything.”

  “Damn. You’ll have to have Elias talk to her.” The leader of the Iowa Alliance was so powerful he could erase even immune humans’ memories.

  “Could. But every time we do, he manages to squeeze a few favors out of us in return. I’m already up to my ass in alligators, like Nosferatu’s little forays into our territory—I kinda wish you hadn’t given up assassinating, because if anyone needs eliminating, it’s Nosy—which reminds me.” There was a pause, and he could practically hear the next question coming. “Whatcha doin’ in Nosy’s backyard?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  She sighed. “Can you at least tell me how long it’ll take?”

  “I plan to be done and on my way soon.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t sound relieved.”

  “Sure I am, sort of.”

  He suddenly realized where this conversation was going. “What did you do?”

  She winced. “Could you sound less like my stepmom scolding me? I just thought while you’re in the area you could make yourself useful and…well, I assigned Sun-Hee to watch you.”

  “To track me?” He practically growled it.

  “No, you idiot, so you can keep her safe. Bo and I have too much on our plates to look after a stray immune human, and since you’re around to do it—”

  “You want me to protect a cop?” His anger died. Insanely, he felt like laughing. He didn’t, of course, his training too ingrained. “You want me to protect a pugnacious cop who doesn’t want to be protected?”

  “And try not to let her know you’re doing it.”

  Aiden hit concrete steps. He was back at the cop shop.

  He cast mournful eyes at the stars. “Why me?”

  The stars only smiled.

  Chapter Seven

  I escaped Titus’s scolding, smarting and mad. How could he ask me to spy on my hero? Inconceivable. And Elena wanted me to shadow the epitome of shadows. Impossible, much?

  I was well and truly roto-rootered. As if being Ruffles wasn’t enough.

  I dug a hand into my hair. Problem was, I wanted to do Elena’s job with my whole heart. But I knew it was bad for me, from a lifetime of sermons about the right thing being the hard thing.

  Hard, like Blackthorne’s body… Rawr.

  I smacked myself in the face. My heart wasn’t the only thing that wanted to follow Blackthorne like a puppy dog…panting, barking, her tail wagging in the air… I stopped, thumbing my temples against a developing headache.

  What to do? My duty was to protect my community.

  Wait. Aiden Blackthorne, assassin, deadly vampire…unpaid parking ticket…was the most dangerous being in Meiers Corners! In fact, maybe that was why Elena asked me to watch him. She hadn’t come right out and said it, but maybe she was saying it without saying it, like when she asked me about my Ruffles genes.

  So I could investigate Blackthorne, dig into his background, tail him, arrest him, cuff him, interrogate him with my mouth…

  I slapped a hand to my hot and sweaty forehead. Even I didn’t believe me.

  On the plus side, my headache was gone.

  “Sunny?” My brother’s voice floated down the hallway.

  That pushed me into motion, if only to save my poor skin from another scalding. I ran for the front door.

  “Sunny?” My brother’s voice followed me. “Mom packed this neat cheese curd in my lunch that looks exactly like a turtle. Well, except that turtles are green, not orange. Sunny?”

  He caught me four feet short. I plastered myself to the wall beside the doorway, imagining myself as a certain sexy shadow while my brother lumbered past. Hardly believing my good luck, I folded around the corner and slid out.

  I clompity-clomped triple-time downstairs. The fresh air cleared my brain. Both Elena and Titus wanted me on patrol. So I’d go on patrol. If I happened to track down Aiden Blackthorne and make Elena proud, bonus.

  As I kicked off, I pulled out my phone and started an Internet search for Dawn Truck Lines. Traditionally Ruffleses couldn’t chew gum and think at the same time, much less walk, but I was a savant Ruffles and had mastered the art of bipedal multitasking. A little solid police work—non-Ruffles police work—netted me both phone number and the exact address of DTL, Thirteenth and Main.

  Being the crafty investigator I was, I phoned to ask if Blackthorne was there.

  A sensual female voice greeted me. “Kitty speaking. May I help you?” The purred emphasis left no doubt that “helping” would involve liberal rubbing of body parts.

  I cleared my throat. “Is Aiden Blackthorne there?”

  “Oh, yes. Aiden is here.” She extended the O with an rgasm, and caressed his name so intimately it made me want to drive pencils into my eyes. “He’s bucking freight,” giving bucking a roll which made me want to stick the pencils in her eyes. “I’ll have him come to the phone. May I tell him who’s calling?”

  I hung up.

  So. He was there. While, yay, I’d overcome my Ruffles DNA to put in solid police work tracking Blackthorne down, boo, I’d left my car at home. Dawn Truck Lines was over a mile from the cop shop and though I can run a fifteen-minute mile, it wasn’t in shoes that would double as clown cars. Hopefully bucking freight meant he was stuck loading and would be there for a bit.

  I’d gone maybe a block when a warning ruffled my nape. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping for dark sexy shadows, but a guy in a lumpy butterscotch parka schlepped along behind me, talking on his phone. I sped up, springing a few drops of worry.

  At the corner, I dropped south.

  The guy dropped south too.

  Throat tight, I sped up again.

  The guy edged into a lope. Catching up.

  My belly filled with acid. No Jonesy to back me up this time. If the Lumpy Parka attacked, I had two options—run or go nuclear.

  Yes, I’m a cop and should have been able to impose my authority. But I’m small. While the stone can take several jabs from the pitcher, unless the pitcher wants to be broken and defenseless, it can only take one hit from the stone. If I can, I avoid or defuse the situation. But I only have one shot, so for me, it’s off, or it’s on. Kicking and scratching, bones breaking…

  We hit Fifth Street. I turned west.

  He peeled off south toward Kangaroo Comics.

  My heart gradually slowed. I was at an intersection doing my look-both-ways—it’s a Meiers Corners thing—and my pulse was almost normal when the black sedan screeched up to, and nearly past, the four-way stop.

  Face-to-face with the rear window, I thought I was looking into a mirror. Dark eyes confronted me. Oval face. Features hardened by the mirrored glass.

  I looked so angry, so…feral.

  Wait. The dark, short hair wasn’t the bowl-bob cut I’d worn since kindergarten.

  The resemblance shattered. The glass was a window, not a mirror. The woman’s face wasn’t mine—b
ut I did recognize it. My first night as an RVPD cop, I’d memorized everything about the experience I could, including the Most Wanted posters. That was Elle Louise Smith, wanted for drug dealing, armed robbery and murder.

  Shock sang through me. A murderer, here?

  The sedan pulled forward, gathering speed. I pursued, clomping as fast as I could. “Stop! Police.”

  The sedan signaled a right at the corner. The back door was within reach. I grabbed.

  The car zoomed out from under my hand.

  I put on a burst of speed. The sedan stopped at the next intersection. I got closer…it zoomed away.

  I needed wheels.

  My frantic gaze landed on a scooter, parked in a nearby driveway, keys in the ignition. What can I say? Meiers Corners. I hopped on, cranked the engine to life and wobbled a turn.

  I lit out after the sedan. I got the hang of the scooter pretty quickly and soon was zipping along at well over the speed limit. Ahead of me, the black car was going even faster. I cranked the throttle. I didn’t catch up but they didn’t lose me either.

  The sedan popped over the Adam’s Street bridge and squealed into the Settler’s Square band shell parking lot.

  Elle Louise Smith emerged. Two men hopped out after her. She said, “Plan B is a go.” They scattered as I parked the bike. I hopped off to pursue Smith.

  One of the men ran toward me on intercept. A thickly muscled dude with broken nose and cap that read “Thuggoh”, his face bore an identifying tattoo, a humped line like an m or double wave.

  “Police.” I shot out my palm like a stop sign. “Hold it right there. You’re with a known felon—hey!”

  Thuggoh grabbed my extended wrist.

  A quick twist freed me. “Cut that out. You’re impeding an investigation by an officer of the law—”

  “He’s coming.” The second man stood near the municipal fountain, phone clapped to his ear. He wore an armband with the same symbol as Thuggoh’s tattoo.

  Thuggoh swept me into a bear hug, lifted me off my feet and lumbered forward. I struggled, kicking his shins and knocking his chest with my skull—but pitcher, stone. I only hurt myself. He dragged me toward the fountain, a concrete depression next to the band shell that functioned as a wading pool in summer but was drained in the winter.