Blood Howl

by Alex Kidwell

  They shared Jed’s one towel—he really should consider splurging on a second one if this was going to keep up—Jed rubbing Redford’s hair dry, grinning at the way it stuck out all over. Red ducked down, smiling shyly at him from under the towel, and Jed couldn’t breathe for that tight twist in his gut again. Whatever this was, it was making it hard to do anything but ache to be nearer.

  Tumbling into bed, Jed settling in happily to Redford’s arms, it didn’t take long before they both nodded off. Jed didn’t dream. He didn’t have to. Nothing that existed in his brain could hold a candle to the feel of Redford, warm and solid, wound around him like it was all they’d been born to do.

  The late afternoon sun teased Jed’s eyes open a few hours later. Jaw cracking in a yawn, he rolled over and tried to bury his head under his pillow. It didn’t work. His mind had kicked into gear too quickly, and he grumbled to himself as the wonderfully hazy, in-between drifting faded into planning and a definite need for coffee. Untangling himself from Redford gently, trying to make sure he didn’t wake him up, Jed paused to smile down at him.

  Red was sprawled across the pillows, mouth open a little as he snuffled further into whatever dream had captured him. His hair fell across a peacefully unlined brow, and Jed gently pressed a kiss to his temple. A wondering kind of pain caught in his throat, as undeniable as it was confusing. Whatever it meant, it was a low burn in his veins, a palpable hurt with the width and breadth of it.

  Tugging on his boxers and pulling a T-shirt over his head, Jed shuffled out to the kitchen with another yawn. He needed a mainline of caffeine. David would be back over in an hour or so, and they would finalize his personalized message to Fil. Jed was thinking explosions would be the perfect touch. Maybe a few well-placed anti-aircraft missiles sent right into his fucking living room, just to make his point abundantly clear.

  Digging through the cupboards, Jed cursed again, loudly this time, slamming a door in frustration. No coffee. Not even his emergency stash he hid in the back with his resident bread mold colony. Checking his watch, he sighed heavily and went looking for pants. There was a cart just outside his building that usually stuck around until after the dinner rush. Maybe they’d have horrible, bitter street coffee in little Styrofoam cups. It’d be a start.

  Half distracted, he shoved his feet into his boots and ducked out the door. He’d be gone five minutes at most. Once he got back he’d wake Redford up, and maybe they could have a little pre-mission planning session of their own. A faint smile tugged up one corner of his mouth as he thought about sleep-swollen lips and tousled hair under his hands.

  The bullet took him by surprise. Then again, didn’t they always?

  He knew, he’d always known, there were going to be bullets out there with his name on them. Came with the job. One of the fuckers would be The One, would be more than a week spent in a hospital or a really great scar for later. One of them would be it. Couldn’t fight destiny. Live by the sword, die with a big old hole in your neck, or however the saying went.

  Pain wasn’t immediate. At first it was the noise, so goddamn loud that Jed instinctively ducked. A spray of brick against his cheek from the one that missed and another report, making his ears ring, and he looked down in shock. Rose red bloomed across his chest, eating up the white of his shirt, soaking him through. “Fuck.”

  Stumbling to his knees, Jed looked around wildly. His fingers were too thick, shaking too hard, and he couldn’t manage to get his gun out. Fuck, he didn’t want to die without a gun in his hands. He needed it; he couldn’t go down like this. The cement was dirty in the hallway, and his cheek pressed against it, grit grinding into his skin. There were boots, footsteps, his pulse throbbing in his ear. Sticky blood under his ear, a puddle on the floor. That wasn’t good.

  “Red,” he croaked. No one heard him. Maybe he didn’t say it at all.

  God, he hurt.

  Was it cold? He should have worn a coat. Red would be cold; he didn’t have a coat yet. Why the hell hadn’t Jed gotten him a coat? Jesus, he needed to make sure Redford wouldn’t be cold. But his arms weren’t listening to him anymore. His legs sprawled on the ground, his body tossed out like some broken doll.

  And then it didn’t hurt so much. It didn’t feel like much of anything.

  And then there wasn’t a damn thing.

  Nothing at all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Redford

  THERE was a bang so loud that it woke Redford up, his muscles jumping as they reacted in automatic fear. Seconds ticked by. One, two, and Redford started to wonder if the noise had just been in his mind, a figment of his dreams.

  A second shot, the sound almost familiar now after being around Jed. The sharp, sickly scent of blood filled the air.

  Not a figment of his dreams, then.

  Before real thought kicked in, Redford was up and out of the bed, tugging on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, fumbling with the buttons because his fingers were shaking with fear. Gunshots and the smell of blood could only mean one thing: Fil had found him again. The sounds seemed to have stopped though, and Redford cast a worried gaze around the apartment, looking for Jed. If someone was shooting at their place, he expected Jed to be shouting and cursing and shooting right back.

  Nothing. There was only silence, the scent of blood growing stronger. Redford’s gaze fixed on a gun on the table—Jed had called it a “nine millimeter”—and despite his hesitation around the weapons, he picked it up, fingers curling awkwardly around the grip and trigger. He made his way toward the blood, only pausing once to toe on some shoes.

  The door was cracked slightly. Fear making his heart skip a few beats, Redford palmed it open. There was a hallway that led to the front door of the building, old and dimly lit.

  Jed.

  Another bullet, coming so close to his chest that it sent brickwork flying in pieces.

  Men advancing down the hallway. No, not men. Fil’s pack. Shoulder to shoulder, guns raised toward him.

  Redford did the only thing he could think of. He ran.

  Slamming the apartment door behind him, Redford looked frantically around the place. Jed had shown him other exits, ways that he could escape if he needed to. He sprinted over to one of the windows, desperately trying to yank it open, using force because Jed had warned him that sometimes it got stuck and really needed to be convinced that it could open. The footsteps grew closer, but the window wasn’t budging.

  Redford took a step back, aimed the gun at the window, and fired. The sound was so loud that it made him recoil, eardrums ringing in protest. But, unlike the movie he’d seen once through the display windows of a television store, the window did not immediately shatter into a thousand pieces. Redford shot again, and again, finally putting pressure on the broken window with a nearby cushion. It collapsed outwards, and Redford jumped through it just as another shot punched through the wall beside his shoulder.

  He ran. He ran long enough that his side started to give a protesting sharp ache. He ran through back alleys and side streets, trying to lose Fil and his pack, even though he feared running was hopeless because they could track his scent anyway.

  Finally, when his legs felt about close to giving up, Redford ducked around a corner and collapsed against the wall, chest heaving for air. The brick was rough against his back, but it was cool and shadowed, amazing against his exertion-heated skin. The temporary pause gave him time to calm down, to think back to what had just happened.

  God. Jed.

  Jed had been lying on the floor, limbs sprawled awkwardly. His face had been so pale, eyes closed, features lax. There had been a growing pool of blood underneath him, a stark, vivid red against the pallor of his skin. He had to be dead. Redford didn’t know how anybody could lose that much blood, could look that still, without being dead.

  Jed was dead, and it was all his fault. If Redford hadn’t been in his life, if he hadn’t been being chased by Fil, then Jed would still be alive. Those forest-green eyes would still be bright with life
, not dulled and pale in death. He wouldn’t be lying, motionless, in some dirty hallway outside of his apartment. His window wouldn’t be broken because Redford had shot through it like a thoughtless idiot. He’d be alive, and now he wasn’t.

  Closing his eyes against the burn of tears, Redford tried to get his thoughts in order. He still had his own life to worry about, no matter how much some part of his mind wanted to lie down and give in. That wouldn’t be what Jed would want him to do. In the quiet darkness of the alley, Redford could almost hear Jed’s voice in his ear. Keep running, he’d say, keep running and don’t look back. Don’t let them get you.

  Well, maybe he’d say something more like get your ass moving, sugarlips, ain’t no time for an Oprah moment. That sounded a lot more like Jed. Oddly, it was more comforting too.

  So Redford, obligingly, got his ass moving. Like he’d seen Jed do, he tucked the gun into the back of his waistband. It promptly fell down the back of his pants, and Redford had to spend a very awkward moment getting it back. His pants did not fit particularly well. Maybe he should keep the gun in his hand instead. Jed had made all of this look so much easier.

  Since Fil knew where his house was, and Jed’s had been found, Redford had no clue where he should go for safety. He didn’t know anybody else, really, and he highly doubted David would appreciate him showing up on his doorstep, if Redford could even find him. He was on his own, and now he had to think like someone who’d done this before. Moving down the alley, Redford looked around the corner, inhaling deeply before he left. He could smell Fil and his pack, but they weren’t too close. His only option was to keep moving until he found somewhere safe, or some place that could mask his scent.

  So he moved. Even if he didn’t know where he had to move to, Redford at least knew that he could move away from the scents of Fil and his pack. Heading east would get him further away from them and give him time to think.

  Because he had a gun in his hand, Redford figured that staying away from the people bustling in the main thoroughfare was a smart idea. He stuck to deserted side streets, moving quickly so that shop owners and customers inside buildings wouldn’t see him. At the end of one alley there was a street name—Fitzgerald Road. He’d seen that on Jed’s maps.

  If he moved three streets over, Redford recalled, he’d be in the red light district. Jed had once mentioned that such a district was good for hiding in, because nobody looked too closely at anybody else. He slipped onto the street, sticking close to the sides of the buildings, briefly frowning at the mix of scents.

  Condom Castle. Whips and Spurs. One store had no name, only a sign in the windows that read “Peep Shows XXX.” Leather Accessories. There were men and women loitering by the entrances, walking quickly by, loud music thumping from a building that read “The Dungeon.” Redford was confused, but he had to admit that it seemed like a good place to mask his scent and hide.

  “Hey, handsome, looking for a good time?” A gravelly voice came from his left, a hand settled on his shoulder, and Redford whipped around to look at him, flinching back. He didn’t smell like wolf, he realized a moment later, relief flooding through him. It was just a man—albeit a rather large man in leather pants and a studded vest.

  “N—No,” Redford stuttered a reply, trying to shake the hand off his shoulder. “But… thank you?”

  The man just smiled at him. He was standing at the entrance of a door, a long, dim staircase leading downward behind him, lit blue and red by the bright sign above his head. “You sure? You look like you could use a good time. We welcome all sorts, especially your type.”

  Confusion temporarily wiped all thoughts of being chased from Redford’s mind. “My type?” He had absolutely no clue what this man was talking about. He wished Jed were there to translate.

  “Yeah.” The man laughed, nodding to another man that was exiting the staircase. “The type that needs to be bent over and given a good spanking.” He leered, stepping aside in a clear invitation for Redford to go down those now-daunting-looking stairs.

  Redford just stared at him. No, he didn’t think he needed a good anything from that man, actually. “Sorry, I’m busy,” he muttered, still baffled after a few silent seconds, moving away again. He heard something being said after him, something about chains, but Redford ignored it. He needed to keep moving. Hopefully, this place would confuse his scent trail, making it harder for Fil and his pack to follow him.

  He couldn’t stay here forever, though. Already Redford could see someone on the opposite side of the street, giving him suspicious looks at the way he was hiding the gun under his shirt. He couldn’t risk creating a scene, because that would only make his presence much more visible. Four blocks from here there was, according to Jed’s maps, a large abandoned warehouse next to a whiskey factory. Jed had mentioned that whiskey factories gave off very strong smells. Actually, he’d only mentioned it because he’d shot someone there once and had said he liked the smell of molasses and gunpowder together, but it was useful knowledge.

  Leaving the red light district, Redford kept moving east. Jed had been right about the smell of the whiskey factory. Silently, he entered the abandoned warehouse, heading toward the back. There were signs that people squatted there, but nobody seemed to be around at the moment. Thank God.

  Redford ended up crouched with his back against the wall, the gun cradled in his hands, trying to keep his mind focused. He couldn’t think about Jed, not now, not while he had to concentrate on keeping his own life intact. But Jed was there, around the corner of every thought, in the back of every decision he made. All Redford could do was shut his eyes tightly and try not to break down right then and there, on the floor of a dirty old abandoned warehouse.

  What would he do after this? If he somehow managed to escape Fil for today, what would happen tomorrow? He’d have to keep running until either he or Fil was dead, or Fil gave up, which didn’t seem very likely. Maybe Redford would have to find some of Jed’s contacts and go into permanent hiding, and if he did, Jed still wouldn’t be there.

  Tightening his grip around the gun to distract himself from the ache in the back of his throat, the heat that prickled at his eyes, Redford forced himself to stop thinking about it. There was a time and a place to mourn Jed, and it wasn’t here.

  “You really think a whiskey factory is going to hide you from us?”

  Redford jumped, scrambled behind a portion of broken wall. He hadn’t even heard or smelled an approach; he’d been too busy thinking about Jed. Or trying not to think about him. The voice was coming from beyond the wall.

  “I’m a little insulted, pup,” the voice drawled. It wasn’t Fil. “Stop hiding. The rest of us are going to catch up pretty quickly; may as well give it up now.”

  For once, overshare was a good thing. Redford realized that there was only one man. He darted a look down at his gun—he had three bullets left. He couldn’t afford to just fire randomly and hope that one of the three bullets hit; he had to make them count.

  Taking a deep breath, Redford braced himself, listening to the footsteps coming ever closer. Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

  Redford moved out from behind the wall, took aim, and fired so quickly that he barely knew what was going on. He flinched at the recoil of the gun. The man—Marcus, he recognized now—had collapsed to the floor, blood spreading outwards from a hole in his chest. Redford had punctured Marcus’ lung with that shot, he dazedly realized, listening to the gurgling of his struggling breaths.

  He’d always thought shooting someone would be a big event. Curiously, and maybe he was just running on too much adrenaline to notice anything, Redford just took one look at Marcus and left. He’d think about what he’d just done later, because there wasn’t time now.

  Marcus had said the rest of the pack was close. He had to get moving again.

  Finding his way out of the warehouse, Redford slowly made his way down the street behind it, trying to be as quiet as possible. A sound, like broken glass underfoot, had him ducking
into an alcove, heart beating wildly in his chest.

  “I wouldn’t suggest attempting to run away again.” Fil sounded pissed.

  Knowing hiding was now useless, Redford hesitantly stepped out onto the street again. Fil was there, flanked by four men, standing at the entrance, blocking it off. A look over his shoulder confirmed that more men were gathered behind him, sealing off the other direction that he could run. He was trapped.

  “You killed Marcus.” Fil approached, his steps heavy. Gone was the pleasant demeanor and the attempts to be friendly, replaced by anger in his yellow eyes. “We’re done playing, Redford. Either you submit and pledge your loyalty to this pack, or I put you down like a mongrel.”

  The men advanced, and Redford stood his ground. As he lifted his arm to point the gun at Fil, he felt the whistle and Jed’s dog tags move against his chest. “You killed Jed,” he bit out.

  If Fil was scared of the gun, he didn’t show it. He just laughed. “You should be grateful.”

  Anger clutched at his throat, and Redford pulled the trigger. Fil jolted with the impact, a hand coming up to clutch his chest, but he didn’t go down. The second—and last—bullet Redford emptied into him had the same effect, nothing but a loud bang and Fil looking vaguely annoyed.

  “That was an expensive shirt.” Fil scowled, stepped forward, and wrenched the gun out of Redford’s grip. “You can’t kill me, Redford. Did I forget to mention that I’ve been around for a very, very long time?”

  His hand lashed out again, and Redford saw stars before they gave way to darkness.

  There was a sense of movement, like he was being carried. Voices. Laughter. The rumble of a car, a door opening and shutting. Time was only registered in the haziest of senses, disjointed and confused. Hands gripping his shoulders, cuffing his wrists behind his back. A cold floor underneath him.

  Redford struggled back to consciousness, fighting to open his eyes. All he could see in front of him was a cracked stone floor, but his sense of smell told him that he was right in the middle of Fil’s lair. There were dozens of scents, each belonging to different men and women—none of them were near him right then, but they were close. He was lying on his side, cold metal around his wrists, a dirty scrap of material tied around his head for a makeshift gag.