Battle Cry (Loki's Wolves Book 2)

by Melissa Snark

  "Why not?"

  Restless, Sawyer shifted and quelled the desire to pace. He opened his mouth to explain, but couldn't find the right words. The feeling of being confined aggravated his frustration. "I have an obligation to fix this thing."

  A harsh bark of laughter escaped Jake. "Son, this thing isn't a broken toy."

  He clung to his resolve with grim determination. "Don't talk to me like I'm a kid, Dad. I know what I'm doing."

  He didn't. He had no clue, but sheer cussedness had to count for something.

  "You're obsessed, and it's not healthy. Listen to me, Sawyer. I'd like to set things right with Victoria's pack too, but not at the risk of your life. Let this thing go and come home."

  Sawyer gritted out his answer: "I can't come home. I won't."

  Jake's voice rose to a shout. "God damn it, Sawyer. Pull your head out of your ass! Think about other people for a change!"

  Shock rocked Sawyer back on his heels. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "You always do whatever the hell you want without considering the consequences to anyone else. You're determined to chase this she-wolf until she kills you. I've already lost one son. I don't want to lose another."

  Sawyer snapped out an instant denial. "I'm not—"

  Jake ignored him. "Have you considered what your death would do to your family? To your brothers? They've already lost Daniel and your mother."

  He was so angry his hands shook. "Leave Gage and JD out of this."

  "Normally, I would." Jake's volume dropped, and he sounded tired. "Why can't you see reason, Sawyer?"

  "Dad, I—" Sawyer bit off a sharp retort. Struggling to get a handle on his short temper, he rested his open hand against the cool concrete pillar, leaning with his head bowed. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he regretted always being at odds with his father. He didn't want to hurt his younger brothers or cause his old man grief.

  The scent of rotted flesh filled his nostrils.

  Blurred motion caught his peripheral vision. Sawyer jerked his head around. Light glanced off a wide blade gripped in a skeletal hand. His mind registered his attacker's face as an eerie white skull juxtaposed upon brown skin.

  Before he finished turning, excruciating pain shot through his hand that was pressed to the column. An agonized shout tore from his chest. His eyes fell on the steel blade as it impaled his flesh and sliced through his pinky and ring fingers. The middle digit dangled by a filament. Blood spurted from the injury.

  "Look at that. There are pieces of hunter all over the place." The speaker had a stilted, formal accent—not Mexican but Spanish.

  Disbelief and anger surged through Sawyer. He doubled over in agony, and his phone smashed against the concrete. Gasping, he twisted fully toward his assailant. The Spaniard towered ten feet tall with unnaturally long limbs stretched too thin. The tattoos of chalk white bones covered his exposed skin, including his bald scalp which made him look like a walking skeleton.

  Jovial laughter rolled from two other men beyond Sawyer's field of vision.

  "I am disappointed," the Spaniard said. "Barretts are renowned as fearsome opponents. Yet, you are as easily defeated as your brother. He, too, died by my hand."

  Sawyer's mind reeled. This skeletal vampire was the bastard who'd murdered Daniel? His blood roared with the song of the hunt, drowned their mocking voices. Rage overruled reason. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. The pain of his injuries dulled in comparison to the roaring fury building within him.

  "This one is unworthy of my attention." The Spaniard addressed his minions. "Carve him into pieces. We shall send him to his father in a box."

  Sawyer flung his body sideways and seized the stock of the sawed-off shotgun. The familiar weapon became an extension of his arm. "Wrong hand, asshole. I'm a southpaw." He pulled the trigger, firing point blank into the Spaniard's face. The gun boomed, unloading both barrels.

  The twin slugs blew out the back of the Spaniard's skull. Bone shards and fleshy chunks splattered everywhere. Not a kill shot, but enough to fuck him up for a while. His oral cavity yawned wide open. A thick barbed tongue dangled through the hole in his face. He swayed and then crashed to the pavement, landing with a heavy thud.

  Feminine screams echoed the shot, girls and women from the parking lot creating a terrified chorus.

  Off-kilter, Sawyer careened into the front window of a yarn store, and his shoulder collided with plate glass. The bone-jarring impact jolted his entire body. The shotgun only held two rounds, so he released the stock and drew his .45 from his shoulder holster. He tucked his injured hand to his abdomen, staunching the bleeding against his shirt.

  A couple paces distant, the shadowy figures of two men stood side by side. More vampires. Sawyer didn't recognize the breed. They choked on laughter and stumbled into silence. A flickering light cast their ghoulish features into surreal relief. The Spaniard's blood painted their brown skin. Thick rivulets ran down their faces.

  One of them opened his mouth, revealing glistening fangs. His thick tongue snaked forth to lave across his lower jaw, greedily gathering the fluid.

  Berserker frenzy cast a crimson patina upon Sawyer's vision. He felt no fear, no pain. Only blood lust. The song of the hunt burned in his veins, pulsing louder with each beat of his heart. He fired, hitting the undead to the right in the shoulder, but his second shot went wide.

  With enraged growls, the revenants launched toward him. The injured vamp charged faster than his companion, grabbing a slight lead. Regular ammunition did little to slow undead. Fire, holy water, and bladed weapons were effective. Killing one required the destruction of its head or heart.

  Sawyer got off another shot, striking him in the chest just before the vampire tackled him. His skull and shoulders collided with the plate glass window, forcing the breath from his lungs. He threw his injured arm out and caught his attacker across the throat. The revenant's jaws gaped wide. A forked tongue and dozens of needle-like fangs filled his vision. The fetid stink of decay fogged the air.

  He dropped the .45 and groped for his belt knife, a heavy bayonet with a guard. His hand closed on the hilt, but he wasn't able to draw it. The weapon was trapped between their bodies.

  Snarling, the second vampire jumped on the first's back. Under the combined weight of two assailants, Sawyer's legs collapsed. He crashed to the pavement, landing on his back with the revenants on top. He lost his grip on the bayonet.

  The injured vamp swung on his companion. "Back off!"

  "I want a piece of him."

  "He's mine."

  The squabbling vampires shoved at one another, rocking the dog pile. The weight on Sawyer's torso shifted, freeing his good hand. He kept his injured arm raised to shield his throat. Gritting his teeth in anger, his fingers locked around the hilt of his bayonet, and he yanked it from the sheath.

  "Boys, boys, he's a big guy." Lilting female mockery cut through the growls-and-snarls argument. "Can't you share?"

  Rumbling in their throats, the revenants swung toward the woman who remained beyond Sawyer's field of vision. A glimmer of recognition penetrated the haze of his rage—Victoria.

  The wounded vampire cranked his head toward her. With the blade angled toward the brain cavity, Sawyer rammed his knife into the vamp's exposed throat. It sank to the hilt.

  The vampire gurgled. His mouth fell open, and thick sludge gushed forth. He groped for his throat while his tongue lashed wildly, seeking a target. Needle spines hooked on the sleeve of Sawyer's coat but failed to penetrate the leather.

  Gathering his strength, Sawyer shoved his attacker off and over. The revenant landed on his back. Sawyer straddled his chest, yanked the knife free, and sawed at the stocky neck, going for the spinal column. From behind him, a wolf's growl preceded an undead's hiss. The exchange of heavy blows and shifting feet made a commotion that ended abruptly with a heavy thunk.

  Steel connected with bone. Lips peeled back in a fierce grimace, Sawyer bore down, t
hrowing his weight behind the brutal assault. With a jarring crunch, vertebrae shattered, and the blade slid clean through to the other side of the vampire's neck.

  The decapitated revenant's insides liquefied within the rotted hide. Coagulated blood gushed from the body's natural cavities, the trickle too slow to relieve the pressure as decay accelerated. The corpse swelled and then burst, releasing festered fluids across the pavement. The stench billowed outward in a fetid cloud.

  Only newly turned vampires died so messily.

  Nausea turned Sawyer's gut, and his eyes watered. His rage lessened, and clarity returned. A distant cacophony of sounds assailed his hearing—the wails of frightened women, car engines being gunned, and tires squealing.

  Bright agony slammed him. A glance at the bloody stumps and his dangling middle finger churned his stomach. Fuck. Oh fuck, it hurts. He'd never be able to use his right hand again. Being left-handed offered cold comfort.

  His throat worked, swallowing convulsively to be rid of the bile filling it. The stench from beneath him made it worse. Covering his nose and mouth with his arm helped a little. Gripping the bayonet, he retreated until his back collided with a wall.

  Victoria Storm occupied the same spot where the two vampires once stood. The petite blonde wielded a magical dagger, a blade like moonlight shimmering on water. At less than five feet, she appeared less imposing than any one of the undead, except her eyes cast a golden glow and her lips twisted into a feral grimace, revealing wicked canines. The bare skin of her arms rippled, precursor to the transformation that turned her into a more ferocious predator.

  "Unbelievable. Vampires in my territory. The whole neighborhood is going to hell." Victoria glared murder at him. "This is your fault, isn't it, Sawyer?"

  "Victoria, I didn't come here to fight you." Tightening his grip on the hilt, Sawyer braced for her charge. He preferred to face another revenant over an angry werewolf. The one silver weapon he carried was a four-inch dagger strapped to his wrist. The stiletto lacked a guard, but its precise balance made it perfect for throwing.

  She snorted. "You don't look like you're in shape to fight anyone."

  His gaze dropped to his hand. Weakening spurts of blood pumped from the finger stumps. His head spun.

  "One left," he gasped.

  "Sawyer?" Lovely features drawn to a taut mask, she advanced a menacing step toward him. Her blue eyes glittered as she contemplated killing him.

  A shadow twice her height arose directly behind her. Long, sinuous arms spread wide to either side. The vampire's lower jaw and cheek bone were gone thanks to the point blank shotgun blast. His head hung on a stalk of intact vertebrae, bloody gristle attached to exposed bone.

  The Spaniard.

  A shout tore from Sawyer's throat. "Duck!"

  Her brow knit. "What?"

  A whip crack split the air. A thick black appendage covered in barbed spines wrapped around Victoria's throat. The oily black muscle undulated, and its coils tightened so the spikes punctured her skin.

  A sharp snarl arose from the she-wolf. She grabbed for the tentacle. The mystic dagger fell from her hand. It struck the ground and vanished. Employing his tongue, the Spaniard reeled Victoria toward him. Those vicious barbs pulsated, sucking blood from the werewolf.

  Sawyer lurched and stumbled. Pain made his head spin. His awareness of his body zoomed out to a distant point.

  Victoria reached behind her and grabbed the Spaniard's arms. Bending, she hauled him over her head and threw him to the ground, but the tongue lassoing her throat dragged her down. Clutching at the coils, her mouth opened in a strangled moan as she sank to her knees.

  Face twisted in a grimace, Sawyer swung the bayonet in a stroke aimed at the vampire's neck stalk. He missed and hit the shoulder, cleaving a deep gouge into the collar bone and shoulder.

  The vampire bellowed. His tongue slackened, and Victoria wedged her fingers between the muscle and her throat. Struggling to be free, she forced the garrote to loosen further. With a huge gasp, she sucked air into her starved lungs.

  The Spaniard's flailing arm pummeled the side of Sawyer's head. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and his spine compacted. Crying out, he crashed to his knees, still clutching the knife with tenacious determination.

  Distantly, the song of the hunt resounded through his mind, echoing the blood surging in his veins. His resolve to fight was strengthened through pure tenacity and raw willpower. Wedging one knee under his chest, he gritted his teeth and pushed upright.

  Victoria freed her arm and thrust an open hand into the Spaniard's face. Her voice emerged as a raspy croak.

  "In Freya's name, be gone!" Nova brilliance radiated from her hand, bathing the vampire's face in light. The meaty strands dangling from the revenant's shredded cheek burst into flames. Exposed muscles scorched to burnt crust and then dissolved to ash.

  Wielding the bayonet, Sawyer staggered after the vampire, fully intending to take another swing. He raised the weapon high overhead.

  The Spaniard jerked his head aside. Swifter than human eyes could follow, the vampire sprang to his feet and fled. His long form blurred, stretched like pulled taffy toward the parking lot.

  The Spaniard vanished from plain sight.

  Blinking, Sawyer stumbled. "Did he just turn invisible?"

  "That's what it looked like." Victoria's voice contained enormous tension.

  Her proximity startled Sawyer. Drawing up, he looked toward the werewolf. "That was the son of a bitch who murdered Daniel."

  Through narrowed eyes, she shot him a scornful glare. "I was there. I know who he was."

  "We have to go after him." He tried to take a step, but his feet refused to cooperate. The world swayed.

  "You're in no condition to go anywhere." Victoria reached with hands still transformed into deadly claws.

  Distrust screamed through him, and his survival instincts kicked in. Sawyer dropped the bayonet and grabbed the hilt of his silver weapon. Yanking it from its wrist sheath, he brandished the stiletto, his last resort.

  Victoria pulled up short. Her mouth fell open, and she took a step back. "What the hell? I was trying to help!"

  "Your eyes." The colored parts of her eyes eclipsed the whites, and the pupils contracted to black points.

  "What about my eyes?"

  "You have on your angry eyes." His heart throbbed in his ears, and his consciousness narrowed to a distant point. Gasping for breath, Sawyer used the last of his strength to remain upright. "You're still pissed."

  His father's voice echoed through his memory: "Son, there's not many things in this world more deadly than an angry werewolf."

  "I've been pissed since the day I met you, Sawyer. I haven't killed you... yet."

  It was the 'yet' that worried him. If the she-wolf wanted to take him out, he made for easy prey in his current condition. "The last time I trespassed on your territory, your mate promised to kill me if I came back."

  Victoria huffed, closing her eyes, and when she opened them again, they appeared human. Her hands flexed. Bones ground and crunched as the fur and claws disappeared. "But here you are."

  "Here I am." He attempted sarcasm, but a wet cough ruined the effect. The last of his strength kept him upright.

  Victoria retreated and bent, retrieving something from the pavement. When she straightened, she held his phone in one hand, and a pinky and ring finger in the other.

  The sight of his severed digits resting upon her open palm sent a fresh wave of nausea through Sawyer. He shoved the silver knife into its sheath and clutched his injured hand to his chest. The world was a million miles away. His father's voice impinged on his awareness.

  "Your father sounds upset." Victoria stabbed at the touch screen of his phone, switching on the loudspeaker.

  Jake Barrett's frantic voice roared from the device. "Sawyer, what the hell's happening? "

  "Dad," Sawyer croaked. "Calm down. I'm fine."

  "What the fuck has that bitch done to you? I'm going to kill her if s
he's hurt you."

  "Standing right here." Victoria scowled. "You know, I really wish you Barretts would stop calling me bitch. Can't you think of an original insult?"

  Sawyer forced a chuckle. "It's really more of an accurate descriptor."

  Jake fell silent, and Sawyer easily envisioned the stoic mask that settled over his old man's face, the cold calculation in his eyes.

  "Sawyer, report," Jake ordered.

  "Vampires jumped me, but I'm fine." Sawyer's voice sounded weak to his own ears. Exhaustion sapped his strength, threatening to drag him under, and he leaned his shoulder against the building to remain upright.

  "You don't sound fine," Jake said harshly.

  "I'm a little cut up."

  Victoria snorted. "That's one way of putting it."

  Urgency gripped him. Shaking so hard the phone repeatedly struck his cheek, he wheezed the words. "It was the vampire who murdered Daniel."

  Jake grated a curse. "Are you sure?"

  Without warning, Victoria seized Sawyer's hand, securing his grip on the cell phone. "Barrett, your son has lost two fingers on his right hand, and the middle one is dangling... He's going into shock."

  "Sonofabitch." Jake's voice contained a hollow note of horror.

  Sawyer cringed, humiliated at the stark summarization of his failure as a warrior. He grabbed for his phone, determined to end the conversation, and Victoria surrendered it to him. "There were shots fired and witnesses. Someone must have called 911. I need to get out of here before the police arrive."

  Victoria jerked her head in automatic denial. "Let me heal you."

  "No, there's no time." Sawyer didn't trust her. Not entirely. He couldn't even say why, but his suspicion ran bone-deep.

  "Damn it, Sawyer. Stop being a stubborn ass. You need medical attention." Jake hesitated, and then asked, "Victoria, can you heal him?"

  The blonde she-wolf pursed her lips. "Maybe."

  "This isn't up for debate," Sawyer said. "I'm—"

  Victoria cut him off. "Jake, order your son to cooperate and allow me to heal him. If he waits too long, there are no guarantees the fingers can be reattached."