by Roh Morgon
I take a deep breath, still a little shaky. The sharp craving has died down to a dull hunger, but it’s nothing I can’t manage. I hope.
Examining my reflection again, a laugh tumbles out at the strands of hair that have worked themselves loose from the elastic band. They frame my face, sticking out in every direction like Medusa’s snakes. They certainly gave the monster in the mirror a nice finishing touch.
A quick tug on the hair tie frees the rest of my hair. It’s hopelessly tangled from the bike ride—no wonder Taz wears his in a tight braid. I smooth it back the best I can, wrap the band back around it, and take one last gulp of bathroom air before heading back out into the bar.
Thank God Taz isn’t back at the table yet. Don’t feel like explaining anything to him. I settle into my chair to wait, hoping we can get the hell out of here before something else happens. Necklace clutched against my nose, I stare at the floor and focus on the ZZ Top song booming from the jukebox, and long for the carefree nights on my Colorado mountain.
A disturbance in the air at the far end of the bar catches my attention. Redd appears from the back room, wiping the beard around his mouth and bearing a satisfied gleam in his eyes. A single spot of blood, no bigger than a pea, stains the front of his denim shirt. Taz strides along behind him, his expression devoid of any emotion.
But as they reach the table, I sense conflict boiling within him. His flickering gaze is hungry, and I wonder why Redd didn’t stand guard for him as he obviously did for the big Scot.
Unless he doesn’t feed on humans.
The possibility astounds me.
“You seen Chi?” he asks in a clipped tone.
“Yeah. She headed out the front door with that young biker from the bar, the one who was talking to me.”
Redd’s eyebrows raise as Taz’s face creases into a frown. Unspoken concern fills the glances they exchange with one another.
“Let’s go. Now.” Taz turns and heads for the door, Redd close behind him.
I hustle, catching up with them as they step outside. Several bikers are standing around the entrance, talking in low tones. Taz scents the air, then sets a restrained pace for the corner at the end of the block, Redd and I on his heels. Once we reach it and make the turn onto the side street, away from the view of the bikers, he breaks into a run. Redd and I speed up, but lose him as he veers into a small parking area lining the alley behind the buildings.
Spotting his silhouette near several dumpsters against the stucco wall, I see him, one-handed, pick up a small figure by the jacket. Redd leaps toward them, landing next to Taz.
“Put her down, bro.”
The harsh glare from the spotlight mounted high on the wall throws shadows across the carved angles of Taz’s face. Blazing red eyes pierce the darkness, and his sharp fangs gleam in the fragmented spotlight beam. Chia squirms in his grip, hissing and scowling at him with the same red-filled eyes, her claws raking the powerful arm holding her.
“I said, put her down. Bro.” Redd moves. The slender point of a Scottish dirk presses against Taz’s throat.
Taz snarls and gives her a shake, then opens his hand. Chia drops to the asphalt and springs away. She stays a half-dozen feet behind Redd, growling, her fist clenched around her own tiny dagger.
The big Indian shoots Redd an ugly look, then turns and crouches down between the dumpsters.
A still form lies in the shadows. Taz probes the unbitten side of his throat, swearing softly under his breath.
“Is he alive?” asks Redd, peering over Taz’s shoulder.
“Barely.” He stands and glances over at Chia, who’s now pacing, the anger on her face slowly giving way to fear.
Taz looks at me.
“Kill that light,” he says, pointing at the spotlight. “Then go stand at the edge of the parking lot. If anyone tries to come back here, stop them. Distract them, fuck them, I don’t care what you do. As long as you act human and keep them from coming back here.”
Nodding, I scan the ground for something to throw at the spotlight. A large bolt next to the dumpster provides the perfect missile. Fortunately, my body hasn’t forgotten its teenage years spent throwing softballs, and I take out the light with the first shot.
I assume my post near the street, listening for approaching footsteps.
Taz turns to Redd.
“You know what to do. He don’t have much time.”
Redd nods, drops to one knee next to the unconscious biker, and rolls back his sleeves. Shock doesn’t begin to describe my reaction when he plunges his nails into his other wrist. He keeps them there, holding the wound apart, and pinches the biker’s jaw open with his dripping hand. Placing his wrist against the young man’s mouth, Redd massages his arm, forcing out the blood.
“C’mon, ya dumb bastard. Drink up.”
The kid suddenly chokes. Redd yanks his arm away as the kid coughs a couple times, then watches as he fades back into unconsciousness. Redd slices his wrist a second time and presses it against the bloody mouth. I can’t tell if the kid is swallowing, but when he reaches up to grab the Scot’s arm, Redd pulls it away. He leans back on his heels as the young biker passes out again.
Chia leans over to look at the boy, then looks guiltily up at Taz.
“Sorry, Taz. I just got carried away. You know how it is.”
“I told you no more.”
“I know. I been real good lately.” She looks away, her mouth quivering as her eyes fill with bloodtears. “Haven’t killed no one for a long time. Too long…”
“That’s no—”
“Leave her be, Taz. We got bigger problems.”
“What now?” He turns back to Redd.
Redd’s moved the kid closer to the wall. He rolls the unconscious biker onto his stomach.
On the back of his denim vest are the red letters MC and Oakland in a familiar reverse arch near the bottom hem.
“Aw, hell.” Taz whips around to stare at Chia. “He’s a fuckin’ H.A. prospect. You stupid—”
“Taz! Enough. What’s done is done. Leave her be.” Redd rolls the biker onto his back, lifts him by the front of the blood-stained vest, and props him to sit up against the wall. He holds his fingers beneath the prospect’s nose a moment, then straightens.
“He’s breathing okay. But he might have a few questions when he wakes up,” he says, stepping away.
“That’ll be his problem. I’m more worried about who might’ve seen him leave with Chia. Can’t afford to stir up that hornet’s nest—don’t want anyone stickin’ their nose into our business.”
Taz’s mouth presses into a thin line before continuing.
“Here’s how this is gonna go down. Chi, you clean up your mess. Redd, you get your bike. When Chia’s done, she’ll meet you at the other end of the alley. Head to the Shell station next to the freeway—we’ll meet you there.”
“You sure? Not too fond of splittin’ up, especially if any of the H.A. wander back here lookin’ for their prospect.”
Taz snorts.
“They see Chi come back by the bar without him, they’re gonna come looking for him, and we’ll get the blame when they find him. It’s best if you two just vanish. Now get on with it, Chi.” Taz looks pointedly at her.
She sighs and nods, then sidles past him. Squatting next to the biker, she slashes her fingertips with the dagger, then rubs them across the kid’s neck. She watches a moment as his torn flesh heals, then stands.
“It’s done.” Chia licks her dagger and rejoins Redd, her expression pouty.
“All right.” Redd drapes his arm over her shoulders. “See you in a few. Stay safe, bro.”
Taz grunts and watches them make their way down the alley, then turns toward the unconscious biker sitting against the wall. Taz positions the dumpsters to better hide the kid and, shaking his head, walks toward me.
“I’m going to the liquor store across the street. You still need to keep him from being seen. I’ll be back in minute.”
I nod and stuff my hands in my pock
ets, then lean against the building, watching him walk away.
His long stride has an easy rhythm to it, like that of a cheetah strolling across the African plains. He baffles me. He’d been furious with Chia—enough so that Redd felt compelled to protect her. His insistence on saving the life of her human victim only provides further contradiction to the monster he appears to be. But I have no clue whether his actions were from the innate need to avoid exposure or some moral code to which he adheres.
Disgusted with my growing curiosity about him, I shift my focus to the music and talk and laughter drifting through the night air. A stray breeze sends plastic wrappers and bits of paper fluttering across the dirty asphalt, accompanied by the putrid scents of burning pot and cigarettes. A resounding burp from the back patio of the bar echoes down the alley, triggering loud cheers and jeers.
Sure glad we’re leaving. I’ve had enough of humans—and Chosen—for one evening. A hunt before sunrise is quickly becoming mandatory.
Taz will have a real fight on his hands if he tries to stop me.
CHAPTER 44
My confidence wilts as I watch the big Indian walk back across the street carrying a paper bag, his expression stern. When he reaches me, he pulls out a bottle of Captain Morgan rum and a black bandana.
“Clean up his face and neck, and make sure Chia got rid of her mark. Leave the rest—it’s better if his friends believe the blood on his hands and clothes is someone else’s.”
Me? There’s no way I can handle this. I’ll probably bite the kid myself.
But the tone of Taz’s voice tells me I better try.
Just wanting to get the hell out of here, I keep my mouth shut and take the bottle and bandana from his outstretched hand. I slip between the dumpsters and stare down at the biker, the bloodlust hovering on the edge of my senses. Opening the rum, I take a mouthful and hold it. The stinging liquid sears my gums and, with a big whiff of the clove necklace, I tip the bottle against the bandana and set to work wiping off the blood as fast as possible. The kid’s chest rises and falls quietly, but other than that, he doesn’t move.
As I shift him to clean up the back of his neck, I discover another set of fang marks.
The two ragged holes are still seeping and my fangs ache to make their own. I spit out the rum.
“Taz…”
He bends over me and touches the holes.
“Shit. Well, get rid of them.” He straightens. “If you can.”
His eyes narrow as he folds his arms and studies me.
If I can? Does that mean I might not be able to? Why doesn’t he do it? I’ve never tried to heal a wound this way. In fact, I’ve never tried to heal anyone—other than Sandy—but I don’t want to tell him that.
Jaw clenched, I use my nails to slice open the vein in my wrist and jam my fingertips into it. The laceration heals as I withdraw them, and I quickly dab my blood on the kid’s wounds, remembering how Chia did it.
The blood-smeared holes appear to vibrate, then slowly start shrinking until their edges meet. They seal shut, and red fades to pink, then fades to… nothing. The marks vanish without a sign of ever being there.
Wow. That’s pretty amazing.
“You done yet?”
“Yeah.” I wipe the last trace of blood from the pale skin.
Taz leans over my shoulder and silently inspects my handiwork. He then stoops beside me, takes the rum, and sloshes it on the biker’s clothes. Prying open the kid’s mouth, he splashes a little inside, then sets the half-empty bottle next to the wall. He checks the kid’s pulse and breathing, then stands.
“Let’s go.”
When I get to my feet and glance at him, he’s staring at me, his expression speculative. He slowly reaches toward my chest. I hold my ground, ready to sink my claws into his face. But he only grabs my necklace. He leans in and smells it. His lip curls as he recoils, and with a grunt, Taz releases the silver chain.
“Who are you from?” he says, brow furrowed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who’s your Maker?”
The age-old question. I shake my head and give him a bemused grin. But as I’m about to tell him that I don’t know, Éva’s warning from her “schooling” session rings in my head.
Never reveal your weaknesses.
And not knowing to whose lineage I belong is a definite disadvantage in this struggle for dominance that Chosen call The Game.
“It’s not your business,” I answer. Frowning, I walk past him and he latches onto my arm.
“I’m making it my business.”
I wrench out of his grasp, stuff the bloody bandana into the dumpster, and start walking toward the sidewalk.
“Thought we needed to get out of here and meet up with Redd.”
He mutters a curse, then his footsteps are beside mine.
“We’ll settle this later.”
Whatever.
We walk side by side, mute and angry. But before we reach the corner, he stops.
“Need you to do something.”
Crossing my arms, I turn around to look at him.
“Sure seems like I’m doing a lot for you.”
“Just shut up and listen. We’re gonna walk by the front of that club, and I don’t want anyone wondering if we had anything to do with that prospect when they find him. So I need you to do a little play acting.” He holds out the paper bag from the liquor store and I take it.
Inside is a bottle of Jack Daniels black label whiskey.
“You want me to play drunk.”
“No. But I do want you to act like my ol’ lady who’s walked down to the liquor store with me.”
I think about it, then give him my conditions.
“As long as you keep your hands off my ass.”
He smiles.
“And my breasts.”
He chuckles then.
“Fair enough.”
I uncross my arms and hold out my hand.
He snorts and, ignoring it, strides past me. I turn and catch up to him, and we’re once again walking side by side.
But he startles me when he reaches across my upper back and gently rests his hand on my shoulder. Worse, after a moment, it almost feels natural there, like it belongs.
Get hold of yourself, girl. He’s not Nicolas.
We turn the corner, thoughts pinging through my mind like a pinball. As we near the bar, I edge a little closer to Taz.
Just to make it look real.
“Hey, Taz! What’s up, man?”
Taz slows, then turns us to face the door.
Three Hells Angels are smoking next to the entrance.
“Not much. How’s things?”
“They’re good.” The speaker, a burly blond with a mustache and goatee, offers a friendly smile. “How ya been? Haven’t seen you around much lately.”
“Yeah. Been on the road a bit.” Taz casually reaches across me, and taking the bag from my hand, offers it to the bikers. The blond accepts it, reaches in, and unscrews the cap. He tips his head back to take a drink, exposing his throat.
The veins beneath his jaw pulse as he swallows and my gums spasm.
We need to get out of here before I lose it.
“Hey, Taz, baby, I’m feeling kinda sick.” I slur my words and weave a little beneath his grasp.
“Well, then, we better get on home. Can’t have you passin’ out just yet.” Smirking, he nuzzles my ear. I grit my teeth and force myself to hold still.
He whispers, “You’re gettin’ smarter.”
Asshole.
Turning back to the Angels, he points toward the bottle. “Keep it. She don’t need no more.”
They laugh and one of them raises it in salute.
“Later, man.”
“Later.” Taz gestures with his chin, then maneuvers us toward the bike. I continue with my drunken performance, but try not to look so smashed I can’t ride.
Taz hands me my helmet, swings his leg over the seat, and starts the bike. Its throaty rumble drowns o
ut the din from the bar, and as he kicks the stand up into place, I climb on and lean against his back.
“Nice ride,” one of the bikers yells. “Both of them.”
Taz nods to them and they laugh as we take off down the street.
We turn into the driveway beneath the bright lights of the Shell station. Redd is parked off to the side, half-hidden in the shadows. He’s lounging against his bike, fingers tucked into his Levi pockets. Chia’s sitting on a rock, flicking her dagger into the soil surrounding the meager landscaping. As we stop beside Redd, she gets up and dusts off the seat of her pants, the dagger now mysteriously hidden wherever she keeps it.
“Things go okay?” Redd yells over the thumping of Taz’s engine.
Taz nods.
“Then let’s hit it.”
Chia climbs up behind Redd and shoves on her helmet while he starts the Harley. She avoids looking at us. We follow them out of the driveway, and I hang on to Taz as the two bikes roar together down the street, a matched set of steel demons screaming at the night.
In spite of everything that’s happened, I can’t deny the thrill shooting up my spine.
We pull slightly ahead and Redd glances over at me, his customary grin lighting up his face. I smile back, noticing that Chia’s has lost its tension, her childlike features now smooth and serene in the caress of the rushing wind.
There is something cleansing about its embrace, a sense of security and isolation all at once, as though we’re the only creatures in the middle of our own private storm. The motorcycle headlights stab the darkness like lightning, chased by Harley engine thunder.
I grip Taz’s waist, my thoughts drifting to this enigma of a Chosen. There is too much about him that just doesn’t make sense. The violence simmering beneath his skin contradicts his actions both in the bar and the alley. His motivations remain a complete mystery to me. Was his decision not to feed due to a preference for a different type of human prey? Does he have a relationship with a human woman? Or does he truly survive on game?
Like me.
But he is nothing like me. And he’s nothing like Nicolas.
He’s like nothing I’ve ever known.
