“Storms,” he said aloud. “Yesterday, when Gray did his thing and fried half of the electronics at RD. You said he was the storm.”
Tiffany sighed. “Yeah.”
“She is correct. We are the storm.”
What does that even mean?
Puzzlement. “It means what I have said.”
Caleb rubbed at his eyes. “Gray says you’re right. And doesn’t understand why we don’t get it.”
Tiffany paced across the narrow width of the room, then back to the door. “We know people have been summoning NHEs for various reasons for thousands of years, long before we lived in cities. Hell, there are images of therianthropes in fucking cave paintings. Every tribe and culture had some version of a shaman, whose job it was to exorcise or kill the demons that went around eating people. We—the Vigilant—think at some point, probably after humans started living in cities, somebody got the bright idea of calling up something that would eat the demons in turn.”
“Why so late in history?” Caleb interrupted. “Or pre-history. You know what I mean.”
Tiffany shot him a glare. “Because it takes a lot to call up a drakul. That we know for sure. And human lives don’t become disposable enough for mass sacrifices to occur until you get city states.”
Jerky memories played against the backs of his eyes, like a black-and-white filmstrip jumping the sprockets. A high pyramid. Mounds of dead bodies, their blood washing away as the rain pounded the mud bricks. Nausea roiled in his belly, and Gray recoiled. “I did not wish it. I did not ask for it.”
I know, I know. It’s okay. Not your fault.
“NHEs are always summoned into a living body,” Tiffany went on. “Except for the drakul, they don’t have enough energy to animate a dead one. It stands to reason the first drakul would have been summoned directly into someone. The strongest shaman, or the greatest warrior, maybe.” She leaned back, her shoulders against the closed door. “Mythology is full of blood-drinking gods called up to stop some threat, gods who subsequently end up going out of control and become an even bigger threat themselves. Kali, created to drink the blood of demons, who becomes so intoxicated by it the gods themselves have to pacify her.” She glanced at John. “Or Sekhmet. The Devourer of Evil. The Eye of Ra, the heat of the blazing sun. A blood drinker who almost wiped out human kind until tricked into drinking beer dyed to look like blood.”
John paled slightly. “It’s only one of Her myths, but...I see your point.”
“I can’t get drunk since Gray,” Caleb objected. Damn, this was getting messed up.
“By the time these things make it into myth, they’re just distortions of whatever originally happened. Something incredibly powerful, called up in a time of need. Blood drinkers who inevitably go mad and have to be stopped. There are other examples, but you understand what I’m getting at.” Tiffany shrugged. “Drakul are blood drinkers, and they’re stronger than any other NHE we know about, powerful enough to animate the dead. The Vigilant have funded a lot of scholarships and archaeology over the years, and we’re pretty damn sure the connection is there. If the other NHEs have some bond to what we perceive as the lesser forces of nature, the drakul reflect greater forces. The heat of the sun, the storm, the tide. Things of enormous power and energy in the etheric and physical realms.”
Caleb wiped sweaty palms against his thighs. This all had to be bullshit, right? “So why’d you do it? Why didn’t you exorcise me right away?”
“Because as risky as this is, it would have been even worse to let Forsyth get his hands on the drakul,” Tiffany snapped. “And you haven’t gone crazy yet. Although I didn’t think Starkweather would start feeding Gray blood right away!”
“Gray can’t get nourishment from ordinary blood,” John argued, drawing himself up. “Just the possessed.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well I don’t see a spot for heroin on the fucking food pyramid, but that never stopped anybody from getting addicted.”
Oh. Oh fuck. Did they make a mistake last night?
Caleb held up his hands. “We’re not interested in drinking anybody else’s blood.” But God, the day in the Fist safe house, with Melanie...he’d—they’d—thought about it. About finding out what human blood tasted like. “And we sure as hell aren’t interested in sucking John dry.”
“Yeah.” Tiffany looked away. “See you keep it that way. Shit.” She unfolded her arms and opened the door. “I’ve got work to do before bed.”
She left. John went to the door, threw the dead bolt and hooked in the safety chain.
“What if John is afraid of me?” Gray drew back, like an animal unsure of its welcome. “I would not hurt him, you know this. But what if he listens to the other mortal? What if he does not want us any more?”
Caleb bit his lip. He couldn’t blame John for being freaked. Hell, it freaked him out more than a little. But hiding from shit instead of confronting it was a big part of what got them into this position in the first place. Go on. Talk to him. Face-to-face. And if he’s scared, at least we’ll know.
* * *
Everything was once very simple. The hunt, the kill—what else mattered? No questions ever troubled him, except where the next demon might be found.
Mortals question everything. He knew this already from their memories, lying in the dark in crypts and tombs and caves, with nothing to do until nightfall but examine the ghostly fragments encoded in decaying neurons. Their lives were frantic, pointless, filled with worry for things no one save he would remember a hundred years later.
Who am I? What is my purpose? Does the deer ask itself such things? The werewolf? Of course not. Only humans.
Now Caleb and John wish him to answer these questions about himself. Why does it matter to them what manner of thing he is? He is himself—he is content knowing this. Why can they not be as well?
“Because not knowing things scares us.”
Mortal nonsense, but now he is frightened as well, because these questions matter to John and Caleb. And if he has no answers, what will they do? Will John listen, instead, to other mortals and come to fear Gray?
“Gray?” John stands a few feet away, seeming puzzled. “Is everything all right?”
“I would not harm you!” He says it too loudly. The clock on the nightstand rattles at the vibration, and John looks alarmed. Not at all what he wished.
“Do not listen to the other mortal,” he goes on in a quieter voice. “She is wrong. Mortals are not food. I will not harm you, or anyone, save for demons. Or anyone who tries to hurt us first.”
And yes, he did think about feeding on Melanie, after she betrayed Caleb so terribly. But he did not understand then, and now the thought of sharing such an intimacy with a mortal other than John makes him feel strangely guilty. It would not be right.
John crosses the room and frames Gray’s face with his hands. “Shh. Calm down. Don’t let it bother you.”
“I fear it will bother you.”
The corners of John’s mouth turn up wryly. “It’s weird, seeing you worry about things.”
“It is strange to worry about them.” He never has before.
John slides into Gray’s lap. His thighs are warm through their denim jeans. “I trust you. Hear me?” He drapes one arm around Gray’s shoulders, but the other hand he leaves against Gray’s face, thumb running over his mouth. The caress sends a tingle through Gray, and he parts his lips.
John’s thumb slips in, pressing against the nearest fang. “You could kill me in an instant,” he says, and Gray cannot argue, because it is true. “Almost without thinking about it. Here, in bed, with your arms around me, I’m totally vulnerable. I have to trust you completely for this to work.”
John is warm, and a growing hardness pushes from behind his zipper. Gray slides his arms around John’s waist, tugging him closer. “You can trust me.”
“I know.” John laughs softly. “You want to know the crazy thing, though? I always have. Right from the first. Oh, my head argued agai
nst it, but my gut’s always been one-hundred percent sure about you.”
The tension in Gray uncoils, an accompanying echo from Caleb. John kisses him, warmth and softness, the taste of truck stop coffee and male human. And it is still a surprise and a joy to think he is allowed this. He doesn’t have to hide away behind Caleb any more. Although perhaps Caleb wishes...?
“Nah, go ahead.” Affection. “I think we both need a little reassurance right now.”
John presses against his shoulders, urging him to lie back on the bed. Gray does so, and John slips his fingers beneath Gray’s shirt, peeling it up and off, revealing bare skin. John’s hands are warm and rough, sliding slowly up Gray’s belly, fanning across his ribs. Then John bends over and traces the same path with his tongue, until he finds a nipple and licks it into a peak. Gray arches, warmth and pleasure prickling his skin like static.
He tugs impatiently at the hem of John’s shirt. John pauses and pulls it off, revealing lean lines of muscle and skin, interrupted by old scars and recent scratches. The dark bruise at the base of his throat where he allowed Gray to taste him calls up memories of the night before, adding the keen edge of need to arousal.
Gray pulls him down and rolls them over. John moans under him, the feel of skin on skin achingly good. He kisses John deep, before nipping lightly at his neck, avoiding the bruise so as not to bring John discomfort. John is mortal, fragile and vulnerable, and Gray is careful to hold back his own strength, not to risk anything that would injure his lover. He extends the claws of his right hand, rests them against the skin of John’s belly, and is rewarded with a gasp and a jerk of the hips.
“Damn, darling, you know how to push all my buttons,” John gasps.
Gray is not certain about the buttons—the only ones are on their jeans, and he hasn’t yet gotten to them. But the rest of the sentence seems more important anyway. “You called us this earlier,” he says, sitting back to straddle John’s hips. “But it is not the term you normally use.”
John’s beautiful eyes are dilated, and he smells of musk and desire. “I usually call Caleb ‘babe,’ so I thought I should call you something else. I won’t if it bothers you.”
Perhaps it is foolish, but Gray cannot help but grin in response. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, all black eyes and exposed fangs.
“That is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. And John is turned on by us?”
But John is grinning, too. “I have to say, before last night, I never imagined you smiling. I like it.”
“Caleb says it is creepy.”
John lets out a bark of laughter. “Don’t let Caleb give you a complex. After all, I’m the one kissing you. And doing other things with you, I hope.”
“In other words, get our pants off.”
Did you not constantly complain about me as a distraction during sexual relations? But he slides off John and removes the rest of his clothing. John does the same; he is gorgeous in the low light of the single lamp. His skin contains a kaleidoscope of color, from the deep rose of his erection, to the blue of veins, to the pale pink-tan of his complexion. Gray wants to lick every inch of it.
John notices his stare. “Like what you see?” he asks, stroking his cock with one hand. A delicate bead of fluid gathers at the tip, shining in the light.
“Yes,” Gray says, because it’s true. “You are beautiful.”
The expression on John’s face softens slightly. “Thank you. Now get your sexy ass back in bed.”
Gray straddles him again. John’s muscular thighs are hard against his, almost as hard as his erection. John wraps a hand around them both, thumb teasing Gray’s slit. With his free hand, he grips Gray’s hip, wordlessly urging him to move.
Gray obeys, the slide of velvet skin a thing of ecstasy, pleasure vibrating along his nerves, only to be reflected back at him from Caleb. Now that neither of them have to hide, the act has become even more intense.
“Goddess, you’re so fucking hot,” John gasps, lust-dark gaze running over them. “Riding me like this.”
Pleasant as it is to be admired, Gray wants more contact. He falls forward, hands planted to either side of John’s shoulders, and kisses him hard and deep. John moans, sucking on his tongue, body writhing and thrusting from beneath.
Gray pulls back a bit, to kiss his throat. “Look at me,” John whispers urgently. “I want to see your face.”
He lifts himself up, just far enough to do as John has asked. The blue of John’s eyes was the first color he ever beheld, shockingly bright and seemingly pure. But up close, the irises are threaded with a thousand different shades, neon to sapphire and everything in between.
“Gray,” John pants, seeing him, wanting him. Then John cries out, face twisted in ecstasy and heat flooding between them. His breath comes in short gasps, but he grasps Gray’s hips, even as his body shivers in orgasm.
Gray allows himself to be tugged forward, until John’s lips wrap around him. Urgent and hard and wanting, so Gray decides not to hold back, to let it all wash over him. Ecstasy gathers like a breaking storm, drawing up tight before exploding outwards, semen from Caleb and energy from him, messy and tangled like everything else about their shared existence.
As John’s breath and heartbeat fade slowly back to their ordinary level, Gray stretches out beside him. John turns his head for a kiss. His mouth tastes like them now, their flavor not quite the same as Caleb alone.
“I can feel you,” John whispers. “Your energy. I always have, a little bit, but when you’re manifested like this...wow.”
“You are happy with this arrangement?” Gray hopes so. He does not wish to go back to hiding.
“I wouldn’t let you. We’re in this together.”
John smiles and brushes their hair to the side. “Well, I’d prefer not to be on the run for our lives, but I can’t complain about the company.” He presses a soft kiss to Gray’s forehead. “I’m not afraid of you, no matter what anyone else says. Whatever you are, whatever shape you and Caleb make together, I know you’ll do the right thing.”
“I do not always know what the right thing is,” Gray confesses.
John’s smile turns wistful. “Yeah. Welcome to the club.”
Chapter 5
Breakfast consisted of drive-through sandwich biscuits and coffee just after dawn. Knuckling the sleep out of his eyes, John said, “What’s the plan?”
Tiffany drove one-handed, a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit clutched in the other. The morning commute had already jammed traffic up on the interstate, and she scowled at the driver next to them who was using his rear-view mirror to shave. The flesh around her eyes was puffy, and he wondered how much sleep she’d gotten, if any.
“I made some phone calls last night,” she said as traffic crept forward by a few inches. “Mom tried to warn me about something, just before she d-died.”
John winced. None of this was easy on any of them, but Tiffany had to go through it on top of mourning her mother. But he knew any attempt at condolence would just be rebuffed again. “When you told her about Forsyth’s demon army, something seemed to click for her.” Too bad they’d been distracted arguing about Gray. “And there at the end, she said you need to find out where.”
“Yeah, but where what?” Caleb asked from the back seat.
“If we knew, things would be a hell of a lot easier.” Tiffany edged the car a lane over to escape some of the congestion caused by the on and off ramps. “As it is, we have to figure out the what to figure out the where, and no one I talked to last night had the first fucking clue. Thanks for being so damned tight-lipped, Mom.”
“What about your father?” John asked. He vaguely recalled the man from some function or other—their graduation from the Academy, probably.
Tiffany’s mouth pressed into a line. “I couldn’t reach him.”
Not good. “I’m sure he’s okay,” Caleb offered from the back seat.
“Cut the crap, Jansen.” Tiffany
glared at him via the rear-view mirror. “I don’t need any platitudes from you.”
“Where are we going?” John asked, hoping to head off an argument.
Tiffany didn’t reply for a long moment, instead taking a bite from her biscuit. “My cousin’s house,” she said at last. “It’s a few hours down the road.”
John suspected she hadn’t told them everything. “You think this cousin knows what Renée meant?”
“No.” Tiffany sighed. “The family—my family—has a lwa ghede.”
John shifted in his seat, angling toward her. “An NHE?” What the hell?
“Don’t get all high and mighty with me,” Tiffany snapped. “Yes, an NHE. They retain the memories of their hosts.”
“Like Gray,” Caleb said.
“Right. Except in this case, it’s like passing on ancestral wisdom. Say I’ve got a problem, need some advice. We hold a ceremony, summon it into one of the people there. It’s like a family dinner, except I might get some advice from my great-grandmother who’s been dead for fifty years.”
John sank back in his seat, not sure what to think. It sounded benign, but so did every summoning that ended in horror and death. “And how will this help us find out what your mother knew?”
“If she horsed the lwa ghede recently enough, it will have her memories.” Tiffany glanced in her side-view mirror. “It’s a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got right now.”
“Wait a minute. If she ‘horsed’ it? Do you mean was possessed by it?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were Catholic.”
Tiffany honked the horn at a truck, which cut in front of her. “You don’t know a damn thing about voodoo besides racist Hollywood bullshit, do you?”
John stared at her. What else had Tiffany hidden all these years? “Have you ever been possessed?”
“Yes. So?”
“So it’s a federal crime.” If they’d been caught, the whole family would have been looking at serious jail time. “You swore to uphold the law when you joined SPECTR.”
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