“Where’s your girlfriend, Mendez?” Hood licked his lips. “She back at the apartment getting all pretty for me?”
Rage poured fire into Dez’s veins, but he kept himself limp.
Hood scowled at his enforcers. “You weren’t supposed to kill him. Just quiet him down a little.”
“Got a soft head for such a big bastard,” one said with a shrug. He held out the statue and the ring box. “Had these on him.”
The fanged bastard’s face lit like it was Christmas. “No way.” He grabbed them, shoved the statue in his pocket and practically drooled over the ring, gloating before he even got the box open, saying it over and over again: “No fucking way!”
On one level, Dez was snarling with rage. Don’t you fucking touch it. But on another, he was cold and calculating, watching as a second enforcer crossed in front of him, reaching too eagerly into his coat and paying more attention to the thought of adding another present to Hood’s stocking than he was to his positioning.
“He had this on him too.” The guy pulled the carved stone knife, started to offer it to Hood.
Dez intercepted it. Moving faster than he ever had before, spurred by something he didn’t understand, he grabbed the knife, buried it in the enforcer’s throat, and yanked sideways hard and fast. Blood geysered, splattering him and getting in his mouth with a salty tang that just ramped the rage higher. He went down with the first guy, got his .44 back, and nailed two more of the enforcers while they were still gaping and going for their guns. Bullets killed far more neatly than the knife, he discovered at that moment, but there was no added buzz with so little blood. He skipped the fourth guy, ignored the shadows, and zeroed in on Hood.
Then he got the buzz, hard and hot, as he locked on his enemy. Kill, something whispered inside him as Hood spun and took off, his mouth splitting in a yell that Dez couldn’t hear over the voice inside his head, the one that was saying, Kill him and take what is rightfully yours.
Roaring, he lunged after Hood, taking him down with a tackle that sent them both sprawling. He recovered first and got a knee into the small of Hood’s back as the bastard scrambled and yelled, trying to get free, to get away, a schoolyard bully bolting when things weren’t going his way. Dez dug in the other man’s pocket and got the black statue, felt the kick of power and righteousness. Kill him now. He grabbed Hood’s forehead, bowed his head back with one hand and slashed his throat with the other. Then he held him there, the wound gaping, the arterial spurts jetting out and painting the warehouse floor as the bastard shuddered and went limp beneath him.
Dez smelled the blood, tasted it, felt it on his skin. It took him to another place, another time, and something whispered: head and heart. They were the seat of a mage’s power, the ultimate sacrifice to the gods.
Breathing fast now, barely aware that the shadows had closed in and two guys were holding them off, he flipped Hood over. The bastard was glassy-eyed. Dead. Dez took the knife to his jacket, his shirt, baring a caved-in chest that seemed too narrow for all the things Hood had done. Metal gleamed at the dead man’s throat, a thick chain that triggered a spurt of possessiveness, a sense of the inevitable.
But first . . . He knelt beside the body, lifted the knife, and—
“Dez!” The word was just a whisper, but it cracked through the warehouse like a bolt of lightning and nailed him right in the heart. He jerked away from the corpse and lurched to his feet. The room spun around him as he looked up.
Reese stood just inside the warehouse, haloed in the light that spilled in through the door she had left open at her back. She was holding her .38 at the ready, had more firepower slung across her back. She had come to back him up, but her eyes were wide, dark, and hurt as she took in the bodies, the enforcer, the gang shadows—fifty of them, a hundred, with hungry, calculating eyes—and him, covered with blood, holding a knife that dripped onto the floor.
In the distance, a police siren started up. She must have called them when she heard the shots.
Damn it. He had wanted to keep this under wraps, under the radar. But now . . . shit. He didn’t know what came next. This wasn’t how he had pictured it looking, how he had imagined it feeling. Part of him was sick as shit, puking in a corner of his mind, terrified that what he’d done was inside him. He wanted to go to her, grab her, and run like hell. But another part of him saw a door opening, a new opportunity presenting itself. Another way to get them up and out, and make sure she was safe from men like Hood.
But safe or not, her face was etched with horror.
He stretched out a bloodstained hand to her. “Reese—”
“Mendez.” A sinewy hand caught his arm in an iron grip. “Think about this.”
“Let the fuck go of—Zeke?” He wasn’t sure which was higher on the “does not compute” front, seeing the pawnbroker smack in the middle of Cobra business, or the fact that Zeke was packing a nine mil that was accented with pink mother of pearl. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Watching your back.” Zeke’s eyes flicked to the shadows; a shift of his gun hand sent two of the hungrier street rats scurrying back. But not for long. “Maybe I’m not out of things as far as I make it look. And maybe I’ve been seeing the direction you’ve been heading, and want in on it.”
“There’s nothing to be in on,” Dez said, aiming the words at Reese even as another part of him said, Yes. This is what was meant to be.
“You two want to fix up the neighborhood, right? This is your chance. You’ve got the balls and the connections. Take the chain, step up as the new rey, and you’ll have the resources you need. We’ll back you.” He indicated three other guys, armed, holding back the shadows. One was Afternoon Bob from the pawnshop. Dez didn’t know the other two.
Take the chain. The words whispered in his heart. His eyes dropped to the pendant hung around Hood’s neck: a silver cobra curled around a ruby the size of his thumb, its color that of blood.
“Dez.” Someone touched his arm. He flinched back and almost swung, but pulled the punch at the sound of Reese’s voice. He hadn’t sensed her approach, hadn’t heard the others gathering nearby, but when he looked up he saw that they weren’t shadows anymore. They were people—some street rats like him, others neighborhood kids. They stared avidly, some at him, some at Hood’s body. A few at Reese.
“Don’t you fucking look at her.” He bristled, grabbed the pendant, and made a move toward the nearest, growling low in his throat. Then he turned back to Reese. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the cops . . .” He trailed off, hearing himself.
Eyes wide and wet, poker face shaky, Reese glanced from his face to the knife, down to the four bodies, and then to the blood-smeared pendant that hung from his fingers. “We need to stay and tell Fallon what happened,” she said softly as the sirens got louder. “It’ll be okay. It was self-defense.” But the dull horror in her eyes said she had seen him attack Hood from behind, slaughter him like the animal he was.
Deep inside Dez, anger bloomed. “Of course it was self-defense. He was going to kill me, use you up, and then kill you.” He closed the distance between them, lowering his voice to rasp, “Trust me. This was the only way.”
“Okay.” She swallowed hard. “Okay. We can deal with this. We’ll tell them—”
“Nothing,” he interrupted before he even realized he was going to. He looked at the pendant clutched in his hand, at the faces that said silently, Will you lead us? Will you make us better? At least that was what ran through his head, humming through his veins like a song. That, and the sudden conviction that this was what he had been leading up to for so many years. Maybe even what Keban had been babbling about all along. His heart raced as the possibilities opened up in front of him.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m begging you—please don’t do this.”
Energy flared. Conviction. “It’s all for you.” Why didn’t she get that? “As cobra de rey, I can keep you safe. I can give you everything that you need.”
; Her whiskey-amber eyes went stark in her face. “All I need is you to go back to the way you used to be.”
“I like myself better this way.” He looked around, saw the ring box, fished it out of a pool of blood.
Her eyes welled at the sight and she pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, and for a crazy second it was happening exactly as he used to dream it would when they finally got to this point: shock, tears, disbelief. But then instead of the blinding, blazing joy he had pictured, her face crumpled. “Jesus, Dez, what’s happening to you?”
He bared his teeth, aware that the cops were closing in, that Zeke, Bob, and the others were getting restless. “This is who I am, Reese. I’m not your cowboy and I’m not your backup. It’s my turn.” He looped the chain over his neck, felt it settle against his skin, warm from a dead man’s body.
“Dez, please.” Tears swam in her eyes.
His head spun with power, with the mad perfection of it all, as he held out the ring box. “Come with me.” He flipped the top, revealing the serpent. “I’ll make you a queen.” Then, seeing that he needed something more, he added, “I love you.”
A year ago, when he had finally admitted to himself that he loved her as more than a sister, the concept had been huge and all consuming. Now it was just three words he used to get what he wanted.
She closed her eyes, tears spilling free. When she opened them again, he saw deep, tearing grief. “I love you, too. But I love the old you, not this one.”
He went cold inside. “There’s only one me. This is who I am.”
“No.” Her lips shaped the word without sound.
“Yes.” He picked the ring out of its nest, held it out. “Come with me. You said you wanted me, that you’d do anything to get me. Well, prove it. Take the ring.” The cops were almost there. Another minute at most, then some dicking around at the perimeter. Three minutes, tops. His heart picked up a beat and adrenaline stirred, making him feel powerful, invincible. But not powerful enough to make his woman do what he wanted. Because she was backing away, shaking her head and mouthing “no” over and over again. “Reese,” he grated, and took a step toward her. Zeke shadowed him, as did several others, closing on her, cutting off her escape.
“No!” Eyes going wild, she broke. She spun and bolted, her boots pounding on the floor, weapons slapping against her back as she raced up a short ladder to a platform, where a slider led into the tunnels, and from there to dozens of bolt-holes and back doors. There, she turned back and looked across the warehouse at him, tears streaming down her face. “Dez,” she whispered, so softly that he wasn’t even sure he heard it for real. He may just have imagined it.
“Mendez,” Zeke said. “We need to go.”
He glanced over and nodded. When he looked back, Reese had disappeared into the tunnels. Into safety. Anonymity. I’m so fucking sick of being anonymous, he thought, nursing the burn of anger when the rest of him went hollow.
The enforcer glanced at him. “You want her back?”
“No,” he rasped, though that was a lie. “None of you touches her,” he grated. “And you kill anyone who tries.”
He would show her. He would make the Cobras into something good, something worthy. He grabbed the ring and stuck it on his pinkie, tossed the box. He would keep it for her, saving it for the day she saw that he was right, that this was the way it was meant to be. But as the cops burst in and the shadows melted away, and he went with them into the darkness, something deep inside him, something that sounded very different from the other voice, whispered brokenly: Mine.
Only she wasn’t his anymore. She was gone. And he was alone in the crowd.
Dez shuddered in the throes of the memory, living it on one level while knowing it was a dream vision on another. Then the nightmare sped up to a flicker-flash of images, impressions showing how very wrong he had been, how quickly he had grown into the skin of the cobra de rey, justifying each slip and slide down into darkness. We need more cash to clean up our act, need more men, more power. We can’t go legit right now or the VWs will level the neighborhood. Can’t do it now when the Smaldone wannabes are making their big move. Then, before he knew it, he had found himself at the head of his own syndicate, part gang, part mob. All his.
More, the nightmare threw his words back at him—I’m doing this to keep Reese safe . . . to prove to her that I’m not what she thinks . . . for the neighborhood . . . for street rats like me. But really it hadn’t ever been about anyone but him. He had done exactly what Keban had taught him to do: take over, lead, control, command. And not give a shit what anybody else thought or said about it.
Another flicker. Another vision.
He woke sharp and alert—always did, always had, no matter what he’d been into the night before. His mind cataloged the morning inputs: decent bed, too-flowery perfume over the funk of stale sex, a woman’s arm over his waist. Nothing to trip his inner alarms. Opening his eyes gave him a look at a decent apartment, a woman’s hand trailing across his stomach, wearing fake nails and bloodred polish. Cheap sheets, expensive manicure.
Naked, restless, and hungry, but not for her, he got out of the bed, not really caring whether he woke her or not. He headed for the bathroom, snagging his jeans on the way, his initial mood smoothing out some when he felt the weights in opposite pockets: his .44 and the little black statuette that brought him luck.
“Hey, lover,” a feminine purr said behind him. “Going somewhere?”
He barely glanced back at . . . Darla? Carla? Something like that. She had big tits, big hair, a bitchy sense of humor, and knew the score. Which was why he was surprised she had even asked. He came and went as he fucking pleased. “Things to do,” he said, and hit the bathroom. When he tossed his jeans, something bright pinged off the vanity and plopped in the toilet.
“Shit.” He peered in, caught a wink of silver, a gleam of obsidian, and flashed hard on dark hair that framed amber-whiskey eyes that were full of vibrant joy, a love of adventure, a thirst for justice . . . and adoration. “Reese,” he whispered, his heart clutching as he remembered her as more than just a flail he used to drive himself. His mind raced on a moment of strange clarity, one where he felt like he was waking up from a terrible dream. In it, he had become a monster, a demon. A dark lord come to earth. Jesus. How had it all happened? And Reese. God, Reese. A hollow ache clutched at him. She was long gone, but she would hate what he had become. She would hate—
A static buzz whined in his ears, derailing his thoughts and making his vision go momentarily black. He shook his head to clear it, realized he was crouched over the john like he needed to puke, but didn’t.
Whoa. Maybe he was feeling last night more than he thought. He took another look at the ring, debated fishing it out, decided not to bother. It didn’t really fit him anyway.
Mind skipping ahead to the meeting he was having down at the pawnshop in a couple of hours, he pissed and flushed, and when the artificially blue water stilled, the ring was gone. But when he dragged on his jeans, he had the important stuff. Gun, check. Good luck, check. With those two things in hand, he could get everything he needed, everything he wanted. Look out world, the cobra de rey was coming.
The dream vision fragmented. And before he was really ready for it to be, it was the morning of the day before the solstice. One year and one day to the end time.
He woke sharp and alert, and his mind cataloged the morning inputs: familiar bed; the faint smell of smoke from the pyre; the stronger scent of good, earthy sex. His body was curved around a woman’s, his arm over her waist, their hands interlocked beneath her cheek. There was no irritation, none of the faint self-disgust of that vision-memory. There was only a poignant ache at the wish that he could snapshot the moment, frame it, keep it inside him: Him and Reese together at long last.
“Bad dream?” She turned in his arms, looked up at him, eyes soft and filled with all the things that had flashed through him in the vision, plus something even more precious: trust.
He pre
ssed his lips to her brow. “Just Anntah—or maybe my own subconscious—making sure I don’t forget about my sins.” He told himself to leave it at that, but her eyes were steady on his, her fingers twined between his, hanging on as if she didn’t intend to let go. “I keep seeing myself kill Hood, keep reliving the way everything twisted itself around inside my head, so the wrong things seemed right.” When her expression turned sad and serious, he lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I should’ve seen what was happening, should’ve fought harder, but I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath. And when she opened them again, the poker face was gone, tears were welling. “I told myself I didn’t need an apology, that it was enough that you got out from under the star demon’s influence.”
"You helped me get clean,” he said. “If you hadn’t gotten me into jail and away from the statuette, I don’t think even the Triad magic could’ve brought me back.”
“You saved my life; I saved yours,” she whispered.
He owed her so much more than that. And he wanted to give it to her, wanted to be with her, watch her soar. “You may not need an apology, but you’ve got one anyway.” He kissed a tear away, felt something shift in his chest. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her other cheek. “I won’t be that guy.” He kissed her lips, tasted the salt of her tears, and felt warmth flicker in the cold place that spawned the nightmares. “Never again. I promise.”
Magic sparked beneath his skin, sealing the oath as she opened to him, deepening the kiss and shifting against him, sleek and bare and already wet.
He hissed in a breath as all the blood left his head and went other, more interesting places. In the back of his mind, he knew they had to get up and out, that she had work to do and he needed to see what it was going to take to prove that he wasn’t secretly plotting behind Strike’s back. And . . . His thoughts scattered, lost to hot, openmouthed kisses. Hands sliding over soft skin. Reese rising over him, taking him inside her.
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