Between Death (#6.5): Dark Dystopian Paranormal Romance

by Blodgett, Tamara Rose

  Hunters have been in place since ancient times. Our opposition have the same sorcerer’s blood that we possess.

  Druid.

  Both sides descend from priests of the highest order.

  But instead of exterminating the vermin, they are saviors of those that would harm who we're sworn to protect. They believe in perpetuation, and we believe in sterilization.

  The Harborer's are the nemesis of our kind. Brothers by blood, enemies by deed.

  The sooner we wipe out the supernaturals, the sooner the threat to mankind will end. And we're making steady progress.

  I move through the expansive gym where all Hunters hone their forms, turning sideways to pass between the heavy equipment. I've worked myself so bulky I'm at the point of losing grace. However, no Hunter wants to be distracted by their own lack of strength when they've got an assignment to fulfill.

  I'll get the details of my next sanction and be done. Hopefully it's another kill. Nothing gets my rocks off more than nailing one of the fangs myself. A larger threat would be a Harborer showing up for the same assignment. But they are fewer in number than Hunters. Vampires are the greater threat.

  Even a skilled Hunter full of quality bloodline magic can find himself in the death embrace of a clever fang and poof—dead meat. The ultimate threat of being turned by one of them hangs over every one of us.

  No Hunter wants to deal with that potential. Get in, kill the fuckers, and get the hell out.

  Simple.

  *

  I run my high security keycard through the slot and the door to my penthouse suite whispers open. I move through and the door slides closed behind me. The midwestern skyline bleeds a purple and red sunset over downtown Sioux Falls as it colors my floor like beaten fruit.

  I stretch and the vertebrae in my back give a satisfying round of pops. I toss my car keys in a low bowl of Mexican pottery that sits on top of a table hugging the jog out in the foyer.

  The floor plan is one of my choosing. It's narrow in the entrance and widens to an open living room and kitchen combination.

  Not that I do a shit ton of cooking. My lips pull at the thought of cooking as I cruise to my fridge. I open it, and true to form, there's no food, but plenty of beer. I grab one and pop the lid using a sterling band on my right ring finger. It's hell on beer caps.

  I take a hard pull, taking the frosty beer to half empty and move to the view seen through my floor to ceiling glass windows.

  Philips Street is overrun with tourists enjoying the bronze statues and Native American shops that dot the area. My excellent night vision is not necessary at the moment. Not with twilight promising nighttime. I roll the cool bottle against my forehead as my gaze wanders and sigh.

  I have twelve hours before response is required for the sanction.

  I set the nearly empty beer on a low thick glass coffee table. A hot shower and catching five hours of sleep is my entire goal before this mission. I'm beat. Chasing down hybrids is a full-time job.

  Walking to the wall that rounds to the hall leading to the bathroom, I pass a palm over a glass sculpture that hangs like artwork.

  It's not.

  A brilliant blue spiderweb of light harmlessly lasers over my skin, reading the unique lines of my hand. A single chime sounds in the silence and the front slides away to reveal a black hole.

  I pull out a cylinder that rests inside.

  It'll have all the instructions for assignment thirteen. Name, birthdate, location. My sector covers the midwest states. There are twelve of us serving this area.

  A vial with a syringe is enclosed in an thick airtight lucite case. My pulse quickens.

  It'll be my first.

  A woman.

  Hunters sanction male hybrids. It's the Huntersʼ core belief that women should be protected. None of us kill females. I don't allow myself to touch on what happens when a rare hybrid is located and a Hunter won't sterilize. The penalty is severe and immediate for lack of follow through.

  Or the disastrous transgression of mating with a hybrid, though rare, it's not unheard of. Those are grounds for a Kill Order.

  I set my dark thoughts aside as the specs fall out last, rolled neatly with the traditional black satin ribbon keeping them in a tight circle.

  I pop the ribbon and look over the specs, reading them twice.

  Occupation: Bounty Enforcer.

  I whistle low in the back of my throat. I'm all for a challenge.

  I slug the rest of my beer back, running a fingertip over the name.

  Narah Adrienne.

  I crush the specs, having already committed them to memory. I walk over to my fireplace and toss the crumpled parchment inside the firebox. Striking a match on the base of my boot, I throw the lit match inside and watch it burn. A low flame bursts over the ancient paper and renders the message unreadable.

  Ash rises up the flu. Ms. Adrienne's fate is not yet set in stone.

  I smile at the thought of destiny. Here I come, sweetheart.

  Chapter 4

  Narah

  Casper coached me about coming before the Magistrate. I'm not stupid. Just brash.

  Very brash.

  Casper ran a heavy hand over his nape. Nervousness making him sterner than usual. “Try to look like a woman.”

  I gave him the glance he deserves. I have platinum corn rows to my waist and a sleeve of colorful tattoos. There's no softening that.

  “I'll go tribal on his ass if he doesn't like what he sees,” I boast, but butterflies tumble inside me like a washer on spin cycle.

  “Narah—please—don't incite anyone. I don't want to have to get an enforcer out of jail. It's the last place you should be.”

  “You don't have to worry about me, Casper. Butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.”

  Casper nodded. “That's exactly what I'm afraid of.”

  So here I am, in line for my turn to get my hand slapped. I'm wearing my version of dress clothes.

  They're probably not what Casper had in mind.

  Black boots (shined), black, skin tight jeans and a sheer black blouse with a black cami underneath. My black bra straps don't even show. It's downright demure for me.

  My ass bones hurt as I sit on the archaic wooden bench they've parked me on. I sigh, throwing out my long legs underneath the bench in front of me, bored.

  I wait through insufferably stupid recounts of deeds ranging from petty theft, to misuse of credits. I stare at the ceiling. This one is a far cry from the shabby-ass accommodations the government bequeaths us at my office.

  Beautiful, old-fashioned plaster work is done in a cake icing style. Swaths of rich smears of buttery looking plaster swirl in different shapes above my head, ending where plaster crown molding meets ceiling to wall. Mission brass fixtures hang down five feet from fifteen foot ceilings, with etched glass orbs covering the modern LED lightbulbs inside, stars shallowly bisect the crystal surface.

  I momentarily forget my environment, dreaming of a life of being able to watch clouds float, a world that would allow my imagination free reign.

  Instead, I'm inside the magistrate court for killing too many criminals for the quarter.

  “Adrienne!”

  I reluctantly shake off my daydream and leap lightly to my feet, stilling my nerves. The security guard's hand twitches above his piece. I give him tight eyes.

  He flinches.

  I grin.

  His face sours and he jerks his thumb at the Magistrate, indicating I should go. I stroll forward down the center of the aisle. Benches that resemble old church pews flank either side of me and I come to stand in front of a huge desk, with two smaller ones like wings on either side of the Magistrate.

  I stare at his archaic getup. Time seems to have gone backward. We're back to guys with powdered white wigs and Shirley Temple curls.

  I bite the inside of my mouth to check the chuckle that bubbles inside my throat. But when someone chooses to look ridiculous, I feel almost honor-bound to laugh at their efforts.

&nb
sp; Like now.

  The top casement-style windows of the court building are cracked open. It's early fall here in Sioux Falls and neither heat or AC is required. A perfect balance between the hell of summer's breath and the bite of the frigid midwestern winter. It'd be perfect if the nearby meat plant didn't give off the blood vat smell.

  Not that I'm against the smell of blood.

  I stand before the Magistrate and don't squirm or budge. I ruthlessly manage my expression into neutrality.

  He looks me over with smug dismissal. Taking in my presumably unprofessional appearance. He sits higher than me, like a king on his dais. He's literally looking down his nose at me.

  My chin kicks up in the only defiance I speculate I'm allowed.

  “Magistrate Oren presiding.”

  The courtroom announcer sounds like the town cryer.

  I shift my eyes down, so close to losing my composure I'm drowning. It's insane how amusement often grips me at the most inopportune times.

  Oren clears his throat. “Is there something amusing, Enforcer Adrienne?”

  I lift my head, giving him a steady gaze. “No, Magistrate Oren.”

  His eyes narrow on me like slits of hate. “Do share if there is.”

  I can't win the staring contest but oh how I shake with want. Instead, I let my fists loosen. Oren believes he has won the small battle of wills and begins as though bored.

  I have a sense of things. He isn't bored, but after my hide.

  I lick suddenly dry lips. Maybe I should have worn the dress. I try not to grump about it. Dresses are for work. They help with captures.

  “You are thirteen kills deep for the current quarter. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty.” Dumb ass.

  His lips pull in amusement. “Three of the thirteen were waived by Enforcer Casper's appeal.”

  I clear the tiny tickle in my throat in the now-silent courtroom.

  His eyebrows hike.

  “Yes, Magistrate.”

  Where is he going with this.

  “Technically, you are then three into probation already.”

  My palms dampen.

  His next words seem to hang in the air between us. “You will have lashes.”

  I suck in a breath of sheer disbelief. Fucking lashes.

  The courtroom erupts in animated whispers.

  The gavel strikes the wood with a sharp echo and the voices leak away.

  “We will not tolerate murderers as our Enforcers.”

  “Magistrate,” I reason in a low voice, “the targets were killing me,” I jab my thumb into my chest, “I would have died without lethal force.”

  “Understood,” he interrupts. “That is why, by law, you are allowed ten kills per quarter. We understand you are securing the most heinous criminals of our time.” His elbows rest on the highly polished wood as he feigns benevolence with his spread hands.

  “You've read my reports,” I defend, and I'm immediately pissed at the desperate waver in my voice.

  The whips are barbed at their end. Ten lashes is considered a fatal amount. My heart beats a heavy rhythm of fear.

  His head lifts slightly and he tucks his hands underneath his chin. “I have reviewed your files.”

  I feel my eyebrows jump on my forehead. “What—why then? Can you not take me off detail?”

  His eyes hood and he looks me over from head to toe. Lingering on all the places he shouldn't be thinking about right now. Pervert—he's enjoying this.

  “I think in your case, Enforcer Adrienne, a more strict discipline is required. Unless you feel extra leniency is needed due to your gender?” He drums his fingers softly from his imperial vantage point.

  My mouth drops open. It's probably because I'm a woman. Gotta make sure there aren't any little girls out there dreaming of anything but motherhood and home.

  What a crock of shit that is.

  He leans back suddenly, the chair groaning under his weight. “I will deliver the lashes myself.” He sweeps his hands apart merrily. “After all, what kind of Magistrate would I be if I was unwilling to mete out discipline by my own hand, but merely delegated it to another.”

  His eyes glitter.

  The fucking sadist.

  I can hear Casper sputtering behind me.

  Not that it matters. The gavel falls a second time, and Magistrate Oren calls out the next name.

  But his eyes watch me as two security officials take each one of my arms and guide me away.

  Casper is at the last pew with his head in his hands as though in prayer.

  Our eyes meet at the last second, for only as long as a blink.

  The emotion in his gaze mirrors my own.

  Fear.

  Chapter 5

  Aeslin

  I perform a weapons check, as I do each time a Turn is scouted. The mirror is my aid, my memory sharp for holes in my defense.

  The females found are turned for their own good. Most will be deep into their late-blooming adolescence, and malaise will have taken over where good health used to be.

  Narah Adrienne will be no different, if she is indeed the Turn Torin claims her to be.

  A solid camouflage spell by Torin will kill the sight of my weapon band, by rendering it invisible. I'd be conspicuous as hell to appear among the humans with three daggers, throwing stars and bindings.

  Tight jeans hug my body, and an equally tight T shirt accepts the job of holding its shape around my bulk. I wear all black because I'm harder to spot with the weak eyesight of the humans. Tight clothes aid in making it tough for an enemy to get their hands on me. I finish my visual inventory at my face.

  The tattoo of my kind wraps my thick throat. Buried within the intricate black markings is the sign for female and is half the size of my palm. A female of our kind. Where the human symbol is a circle with a cross, ours has a dot inside the circle along with a second bar. The symbol is more complicated. As is our race.

  The symbol for female is buried above our hearts. For we have two. The large heart commands the smaller one, but one heart can keep the other alive if the other is pierced.

  That's why vampire lore, the part that's actually true, talks of taking the head. A stake to the heart is not absolute. Not when there are two.

  Satisfied I'm battle ready, I walk out of my subterranean home. The smell of the earth permeates the rooms that run like a maze beneath the ground. The ambient temperature anywhere in the world is the same at this depth and uniquely suited to the vampire. The temperature in my home ranges in the high fifties.

  I move through my house, noting the locks are engaged, and everything is in order. Lastly, I move to the holding room for a Turn and peer through the window at head height inside the only door.

  A bed, nightstand and a large dresser flank one side. On the other is a doorway leading to a large bathroom with a walk-in shower. Everything is in order. Turners command every luxury and are afforded a weekly maid service. Rooms for a Turn are always fresh and in top shape.

  Mine has never been occupied.

  I give a last lingering glance at the empty room and walk away.

  This mission will probably be bullshit like the rest.

  If we're fortunate enough to get to Narah before a Hunter, then there is the matter of her surviving her change.

  If the Hunter gets to the Turn first, she will be rendered sterile. The serum the Hunter injects arrests the natural evolution of her life. She cannot turn into a vampire, as she's destined to do.

  Nor can she have children. Human or vampire.

  I thumb my silver knife and lift it, feeling the custom grip and the perfect weight for throwing.

  I will kill a Hunter during this mission if one steps into my path. Of that, there is no doubt.

  Chapter 6

  Narah

  “You could say thank you.”

  I cross my arms and mumble out a reply.

  Casper's brows meet. “What was that?”

  “Thank you,” I grump. “Fucking lashes?”<
br />
  Casper sighs and squeezes my shoulder once. “It's barbaric but within his rights by law. I'll admit,” his fingers float through hair like spun white glass, “I haven't seen that sentence passed in years.”

  “He's a creep.”

  Casper gives a chuckle in seeming agreement.

  I glare at him. I can't find anything humorous right now.

  He stops, giving a helpless little shrug. “I appealed, you've been granted a stay.”

  Three miserable days. “I'm just going to anticipate the sentence. Work myself up into a stupid lather.”

  “Narah,” Casper's kind eyes find mine, “you're the finest enforcer I have. A mite enthusiastic with the kills but productivity? No one comes close. I don't know where you get your instincts from...”

  I grin. “Women's intuition,” I say more smugly than I should.

  But Casper smiles back. “You'll only admit to being part of the fairer sex if pressed.”

  “If it gains me advantage.” Which it clearly didn't today.

  Casper inclines his head. “True.”

  I puff out a breath and it lifts a rare loose strand of hair. The rest is tightly coiled in a lineal nest of neat braids against my head. It stays in a knot at my nape when I work. I can hide the tats—or not.

  It depends on the job.

  And the job Casper has for me is intriguing. He knows I need this. If I don't take a target I'll go crazy until my sentence. It's a mercy.

  “No killing,” he says, slapping the file down in front of me. I don't tear it open as I usually would, but trace a light fingertip across the smooth top.

  Our eyes meet.

  “How much?”

  He folds his lanky arms. “Always about the credits, even now.”

  I slowly nod. What else is there? Of all people, he should understand.

  Deep down, I feel like the end is coming for me. Way off in the distance of my imagination I see the light of a train as it hurtles toward me. I am like a deer on the tracks.