by Faith Hunter
I whipped back behind the wall. What the heck? I had never seen anyone except a vamp move so fast. I remembered Katie saying to him, “You will live. And still mostly human . . .” What was Bruiser now? How close to being a blood-sucker was he?
I made a faint sound and stepped out. Bruiser was at the front entrance, scanning the yard. “We’re clear here,” he said, without turning around. He closed the front door with a snap, and the dead bolt settled into its slot.
“Good,” I said, sounding almost normal. “I’ll go help with the back, then.”
Bruiser turned to me, his brown eyes taking me in. His roaming gaze paused at the sight of my bare feet, lifted, and stopped at my chest. Oh yeah. No bra. White T-shirt. A warm smile lit his face and he met my eyes. Beast’s claws dug in hard as she stared back. Heat hit me. That deep, limb-numbing heat of unexpected, pure lust. Electric shocks sizzled through me, settling in the palms of my hands, soles of my feet. My breasts tightened. Heaviness weighted my lower belly with need.
I should be mad at Bruiser. I am mad at him, I thought. He betrayed me.
Mine, Beast thought. Which explained a lot.
Gunfire sounded from the rear of the house. A scream echoed in the backyard. I should have been moving that way. Instead, I was standing, gun gripped in both hands, as Bruiser crossed the room, slowly this time. He moved like a dancer, all lithe grace, the soles of his shoes making no sound beneath the concussive damage to my ears. Beast held me down and unmoving.
The gunfire at the back of the house fell silent. Our side had won, I guessed.
Bruiser holstered the long-barreled weapon in a shoulder holster and took my Walther out of my hand. His other slid around my nape, under my braid. He leaned into me, his body so heated it radiated through my clothes. Burning. His mouth landed on mine. Crushing, his teeth hitting, clacking against mine. I dropped my head back into his palm, and some feral sound came from my mouth, part moan, part purr, all need. His tongue slid between my lips. He smelled like caramel, like heated brown sugar, with a hint of something spicy. He cupped my backside, the gun hard and cold, his hand, holding it and me, felt like heated velvet.
I melded to him, his taller body fitting over mine as if we were made for it. He shoved me to the wall at my back. The cold gun vanished. His hot hand lifted me, his fingers so close—so close—to where I wanted them. He lifted me, and my legs went around him, my ankles locking at his spine. I pressed my center against his hard, long length. Wanting . . .
His other hand slid down the side of my neck and across my collarbone, floated over my breast, slowing, tightening, fingers pulling at my nipple through my T. My hands were inside his shirt, sliding across his shoulders. Buttons flew.
A bark of pain sounded above renewed gunfire at the back. We jerked apart, our eyes holding, our breathing fast, oxygen starved. “This is nuts,” I whispered.
“Bad timing. A bed. Later.” He dropped me and handed me my Walther. Drew his long-barrel. In sync, we moved down the hall, Bruiser at point. I tried to remember how to breathe.
Wrassler should have been down, as a wound bled at his left side near his waist, soaking his dark blue pants black, but he was on one knee, firing single shots out the back, clearly low on ammo. Esmee was at the window, sighting down a target pistol. Eli was outside; he sprinted across the yard, zigzagging. Esmee took three steady shots, cover fire. A form behind the pool fell forward and then rolled back into the foliage. Eli tore for the garage. Someone rose from the garage roof, aiming down. I started to shout, but Bruiser raced through the short hallway and into the yard, into the sunlight, raising his weapon. Moving. Faster than I had ever seen a human move. Or almost human.
He leaped, his body going horizontal over the hood of the car. In midair, he fired. Up. Three shots. He landed on the other side, somehow on his feet. Wrassler cursed at the speed and the perfect landing. The man on the roof fell forward and slid down the roof tiles. Dead.
That was seven shots. Bruiser had to be almost out of ammo. “How many bad guys left?” I called out.
Esmee shouted from the mudroom, “One in the yard, three o’clock. I got him in my sights.”
“One in the garage,” Wrassler said.
“Esmee, hold fire,” I shouted. I dove into the yard. Esmee did not hold fire. Instead she laid down cover fire, each shot behind me but so close I wondered if they were tearing through my clothes. I reached the side of the garage, stepping over the dead human on the ground. He was staring at the sky, his mouth open, eyes already drying. I smelled feces on the cool air.
Bruiser whirled at my movement, checking himself before he fired. “There’s one in the garage with Eli,” I said. “Blood-servant.” Which meant faster than human, better eyesight than human, better reflexes than human. Eli was good, no doubt, but none of us knew how good yet. “Kid’s supposed to be in the limo,” I reminded him.
Bruiser nodded once. “I’m faster.”
Yeah. He was. I checked the yard. Safety’d, tossed him my Walther, and drew the one at my spine, surprised it had survived the romp in the hallway. “Go,” I said.
Bruiser leaped straight off the ground in a move so catlike that Beast hacked with delight. Still in the air, he soared through the open garage door. I heard him land, a faint scuff of sound. Two shots sounded, echoing in the garage. Behind me, Esmee fired two shots. The last bogey in the yard fell into the bushes. I ran from cover and checked each of the downed. One was still alive, gut-shot, in agony. He’d probably live if he got to a hospital in time.
A barrage of shots sounded in the garage, then silence. Eli and Bruiser carried a woman from the garage and tossed her to the dirt. Dead. The Kid peeked around the garage door, his face white and eyes wide, an armful of electronic devices clutched to his chest.
It was only then that I realized I hadn’t fired a single shot. I started laughing.
* * *
This wasn’t something that we could cover up. Sirens sounded in the distance, closing fast. Neighbors, or maybe Esmee, had called 911. To avoid questions, I took my unfired gun upstairs and secured it. In minutes the house was surrounded by cops. Esmee trotted out to them, a big smile on her face. She had taken the time to smooth her hair and put on lipstick, and she looked the perfect hostess in her bright floral scarf and her pearls. Bruiser, still in his dress slacks with an unbuttoned shirt, the tails billowing out behind him, followed her, his cell phone to his ear. He looked like a fashion shoot from GQ—one titled “The Morning After.” Around and in the house were dead humans, their blood soaking into the parquet flooring and the sculpted garden loam.
Only in the South.
* * *
An ambulance pulled up, the EMTs treating Wrassler’s wound and the wounded bad guy before leaving with the injured man and two cops riding shotgun. More cops arrived—more than half the cops in the county and the town gathering, with plenty of plainclothed guys all trying to be the big dog. Alex and I were the only ones who hadn’t fired a shot. To prove that assertion, neither of us had any GSR on us. The others of our group were herded into different parts of the house and questioned, the cops relentless and suspicious. Alex and I sat on the couch, Alex intent on his electronic searches, shaking from time to time, his body odor sour with hormones, fresh panic, and old fear.
At one point, however, the OIC—officer in charge of the shooting scene—made a call. Then, newly elected Adams County sheriff Sylvia Turpin, who was the many-times great-granddaughter of the county’s first sheriff, drove up in her marked car. Turpin took her job very seriously, especially when she discovered that Leo Pellissier’s primo was on-site. Seemed that Leo had contributed a hefty sum to her election campaign. After that discovery, Turpin made a series of phone calls, several of the plainclothes cops took calls, and things began to move along.
Within half an hour, the state crime lab had arrived, bringing a medical examiner, and we were free to go, though not free to leave town. I wondered who had called in the big guns. Remembering the cell phone at h
is ear, I was guessing Bruiser. As the MOC’s primo and point man, he might be the most powerful human—part human—in the South, governors and senators included, and when he called in favors, things would naturally go his way. A New Orleans blood-servant pulled up in an SUV and consulted with Bruiser, the cops, and the petite, pretty, redheaded little sheriff. While the powers-that-be conferred, the rest of us retired to the dining room.
The unflappable chef had laid out a feast. Or I’d thought him unflappable until I heard him telling the cops he’d hidden under a small table in the butler’s pantry during the shooting. And then he’d changed his pants. It was his vehicle out back. He had been grocery-shopping when we arrived, which was why I hadn’t seen the SUV.
We gathered for snacks in the dining room, which had a carved mahogany table and chairs, and a wall-long hand-carved and painted china cabinet. The room would seat twenty easily, and the chandelier over our heads was the real thing—twenty-four-karat gilt and hundreds of lead crystals. The snack, thrown together in minutes, was brie, fresh fruit, sliced homemade rye bread, and ten pounds of rare roast beef with sandwich makings dished up in cut-crystal bowls. There was also red beans and rice and barbecued Andouille sausage. Finger-licking, to-die-for sausage. The fighters were starving, adrenaline breakdown needing fuel. I hadn’t been involved in the fighting, but with my skinwalker metabolism, I was always hungry. Which likely had something to do with the little clinch in the hallway. But still . . .
I ate two sandwiches, mostly meat and brie, remembering Bruiser’s hands on me, his mouth on me, while the guys discussed what we had to do.
“We can’t stay here and wait until nightfall when our full backup arrives,” Wrassler said.
“We can’t storm the three-story building without them,” Eli said. “It would be stupid.”
“We’re down to two healthy shooters,” Bruiser said.
“Three,” I said through a mouthful of food. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
“A woman,” he said.
My eyes went cold and narrow. The table went silent, all the eyes on me. Bruiser stopped, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He held it there, his mouth open, thinking. He turned his eyes to me, his head not moving. I didn’t smile. He blinked once, took a bite, and chewed, still thinking, letting his eyes roam the room and out into the hallway where we had recently had that very unsatisfying clinch. When he swallowed, he said, “Four shooters, one injured. Forgive the automatic, ingrained stupidities of an old man.”
Alex snickered into the silence. I finished chewing my bite and swallowed. “Don’t let it happen again.” Eli looked at Bruiser, at me, and to the hallway, his eyes considering. I reached for an apple and bit down, the crunch seeming to break the tension.
“So we have four shooters and they’re down seven. And they won’t be expecting us,” Wrassler said.
“It’s daylight. The fangheads will be asleep, right?” Alex said.
“Fiction. They can stay awake if they have to, and they can stand a little sunlight, especially the old ones.” Wrassler emptied a Coke down his throat and popped the top on another. “From the intel—”
“What intel?” I asked.
“One of Leo’s blood-servants is related to one of Hieronymus’ servants. He asked some questions and provided us some answers. We’ve got maybe ten old ones in there, plus their blood-meals. No way we can take them.”
“Most Mithrans travel with two blood-servants apiece,” Bruiser said, “so if they hold true, then we would be facing ten masters and the remainder of their servants, thirteen humans.”
Alex asked, “Do we have access to a helicopter?” Every head in the room turned to him. He spun the laptop around so we could see a schematic of the roof of the three-story building the vamps had taken over. There was a large, new air-conditioning unit and plenty of room for a helo to land, providing the structure could handle it, or for soldiers to drop down if not. And the AC vent was a specific weakness to the entire building.
Bruiser started to smile.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I Disliked Her on Sight
The helo would be in position over the building in thirty minutes. We were parked down the street, geared up, watching the place from the back. Grégoire was not going to be happy when he saw the damage incurred on his new limo in the shoot-out. My official cell vibrated in my pocket. Ricky Bo LaFleur’s picture appeared on the front. My heart did a little flutter. I opened the cell and said, “Hi.” There must have been something odd about my tone, because all the men looked at me at once. I turned my back to them and heard Rick say, “Where—you?” There was a horrible roar in the background and he was breaking up.
“In Natchez. Where are you?”
“In a helicopter wi . . . razy former marines.”
I put it together fast. “You and Derek are on the way here?”
“Yeah . . . mi. . . . and once this little problem . . . we can take off . . . play.” The call clicked off. I wiped my mouth, hoping I was smearing off the goofy smile. I turned back around. “We have official government backup from the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security.”
Bruiser nodded. “I wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull it off.”
“You did this?”
“Yes.” His eyes met mine. “As primo.”
“Ah,” I said, my heart plummeting. That was that. So much for the hot and heavy clinch in the hall. His duty to Leo came first, and keeping us on the right side of the law was a big part of that. Not that I could complain. Ricky Bo was coming and my big-cat was happy.
“Masks,” Eli said.
I pulled the mask over my face. Eli had found them for sale at a gun shop in New Orleans and identified them as “Israeli M-15 military models with Nato filters.” Whatever. I just wanted mine to keep me alive. I settled the mask in place and tested it by breathing deeply before Eli released the foul-smelling smokeless bomb in the confines of the limo. Stink filled the car. I didn’t smell a thing, though breathing wasn’t easy and the mask was hot and uncomfortable. But I smelled nothing gross and gave Eli a thumbs-up.
Eli had informed us that sleeping gas didn’t exist, but the military had something that worked short-term on humans. He’d be using that on the building. I didn’t ask what it was or where he got it, and he didn’t volunteer. I vaguely recalled that the Russians had tried something on a theater full of people once and managed to kill most of them. I just hoped the U.S. military stuff worked better.
Thanks to Derek’s suppliers and the truck that had followed us up here, we were all dressed in night camo with Kevlar vests, combat boots, utility belts, shooting gloves—the kind with the knuckles and fingertips bare—ear protectors that doubled as radio receivers, and enough gear to start a small war. Bruiser had guns holstered everywhere and carried the pump shotgun borrowed from Esmee. Wrassler had a totally illegal, fully automatic, compact machine gun and enough magazines to shoot for fifteen minutes at full auto. Enough ammo to melt the barrel of his gun, assuming the heat buildup from firing didn’t jam it first, which was all too likely.
I had all my blades and stakes—including two new, longer, special-made ones—in sheaths and loops, and my Walthers holstered at my spine and under my left arm. One was loaded with silver for vamps and the other with standard ammo. My M4 Benelli was loaded for vamp with seven silver fléchette rounds, and I had another seven in special loops in a thigh pouch. But if I needed to reload, I would likely be dead before I could finish. The shotgun was slung at the ready and strapped in place under my right arm. The positioning was Wrassler’s idea, and though I’d never fought with the M4 strapped there, it felt good. I wouldn’t have to pull the shotgun from its spine sheath and ready it for firing. I just had to stabilize, point, and shoot. The webbing left me room to maneuver the weapon enough to aim and fire, and was relatively easy to pull free for full manual positioning.
“Com check,” Derek said over the radio. Instantly, we could hear the helo in the radio system background.
He called our names or monikers out one at a time, and when he said, “Legs,” I replied, “Got ’em.” Everyone laughed. It was hard to see his expression with the mask in the way, but I thought Bruiser’s eyes were twinkling.
“Canisters?” Eli asked Bruiser and me.
I touched the three canisters at my belt; they were marked CS. It was the new pressurized colloidal silver stuff for use on vamps and I didn’t know how they would work. No one did. When the canister was activated, it would spew an ionized silver mist into the air. Every time vamps took a breath—if they did before it dissipated—they’d get a lungful. It wouldn’t mean instant death, but it might slow them down and poison them.
“On my go,” Eli said. This was his gig. I had no training for paramilitary raids. My combat style was more along the lines of stake ’em and run. Eli pulled his mask off, grabbed a black mesh bag, and slid out of the car. He disappeared into an alley at a fast jog.
He had reconnoitered the alley earlier and found some old wood back stairs on the two-story building adjacent to the three-story one, housing our target. He was going to ascend the steps of the two-story building, make his way to the roof, toss a grapnel across to the adjacent walled roof, and then haul himself up to the roof next door. The last part was an eighteen-foot climb. Which I would like to see, but I wasn’t part of the roof assault.
Six minutes later he said, “I’m in. Gas is a go.” Which meant in six minutes he had climbed up the fire escape, then to the roof adjacent, found an access for the air conditioner, removed its air intake panel, and started the gas. Go, Rangers, go, army.
Based on estimated cubic feet, Eli had calculated the number of canisters needed to knock out the building, and how long it would take. Then he added two canisters. Waiting sucked. I looked at the time. Sunset was in fourteen minutes. In fourteen minutes, the vamps could take an attack into the streets. We were cutting it close.
I could hear the helo’s rotors beating the air. The helo got closer, the noise louder. Leo’s helicopter wasn’t a sleek, modern, quiet-operating model, but an older helo, a refurbished Vietnam Era Bell Huey, with heavy armament and retrofitted with lots of modern bells and whistles. I was pretty sure that most of the bells were not entirely legal, and owning the whistles was likely a felony but well worth the risk. If we had to shoot the vamps with missiles, the helo had the capability, I thought dryly.