The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

  “She is,” Carlos said, his awareness taut as he sensed for poison, his olfactory capability keened, while his drink was being prepared. Just a bit of colloidal silver would eat his insides out, but his expression remained amused. “She’s feisty, still has a lot of Neteru in her,” he said, knowing it was the most prevalent and tempting question in the Aussie’s mind.

  He watched McGuire sit down slowly, unabashed curiosity glittering in his moss green eyes. Carlos could see the man breathe in slowly, as if trying to control his inhales, as the scent of Damali coming off Carlos’s body lit him up. Excellent.

  “How on earth . . . Mr. Councilman . . . if you don’t mind me asking?” The Aussie leaned forward and handed the drink to Carlos with caution, tilting his head, sniffing hard as he withdrew. He raised his skein in a gesture of respect, and then took a quick swig from it.

  Carlos returned the gesture with a smile. “Crazy woman was fighting were-demons in Brazil, took a mortal wound, had almost bled out when I found her. Was still trying to swing the Isis at me when I got to her. Her immune system was compromised as her body went into death shock, but timing of the bite is everything. I beat death to the punch while her defences were down.” Carlos shook his head and chuckled. “Neteru to the bitter end.”

  His host nodded, and took a long, deliberate sip from his skein. “She’s trailing it all through the house,” he whispered, swallowing hard.

  “Yeah,” Carlos said, standing, going to the window. “Died with it in her system . . . will, at times, make you do foolish things—but that’s part of her allure. She wears it for me now as a signature fragrance that she conjures.” He glanced at McGuire over his shoulder, and looked down at his drink. Yeah, they had to get this shit straight so it was clear. Reach for her and you’re dying for placebo. “That’s why I don’t travel with an entourage anymore. Gets too messy; a waste of energy, and my dogs were becoming gorged.” He looked up at McGuire. “I would hate to have an incident in the castle. While I’m sure you understand, we do have a few older foreign ambassadors who might not. Let’s not have any confusion.”

  McGuire hesitated, fully comprehending the threat. “Oh, the castle is a sure sanctuary for you while you visit, sir.”

  “Good.” Carlos nodded and came back to his seat and gestured for the Aussie to relax. “Do you have any particular regional problems that you’d like me to bring to the council table after my visit?”

  The Aussie stood and began pacing slowly near his desk with his hands behind his back. “Of course, you’re busy, and I’m honored that you’ve even asked, especially after your long travel here, but, uh, the Aborigines, their prayer lines have carved up my territory so badly. It’s an old regional problem, but my previous entreaties to the council have gone ignored as a low priority for them. I’ve been lobbying council since the nineteen-eighties, when our drug traffiking operations really needed to cross those lines at will. When flying, you had a butcher at it, right?”

  “That’s a bitch,” Carlos said, raking his fingers through his hair, while trying to sound empathetic. Now came the bargain for the shaky promise of support. “I saw them—just crisscrosses your whole region, and so old they glow.” Carlos stood and went to the window.

  “My point exactly. They’re like electric fences. I need to annex some well-trod areas where the lines are not as lethal. Lost two good vamp drivers last week and was mad as a cut snake. My pilots have all gone blind; they have to sense their way in. Makes transporting lucrative products overland a shipping hazard.” The Aussie went back to his chair and sat with a thud and waited as Carlos slowly found his seat.

  Both men’s eyes locked across the desk. Carlos could feel the Aussie siphoning information from the Dananu language before speaking. It morphed daily, and it took lower levels a moment to calibrate to it—lest they offend a higher rank by misspeaking even in the smallest way. So he waited, watching strengthened respect dawn in his host’s eyes as McGuire picked up the new strand of Spanish that ran through the negotiation syntax.

  The Transylvanian’s territories are vast, and have been coveted for a long time by many. The Aussie didn’t blink as he spoke slow and easy.

  Carlos wrapped his mind around the harsh guttural tones of the familiar language.

  That is a significant concentration of power, Carlos replied, much like Africa.

  Stunned, the Aussie nodded as his will fractured and then regrouped. You would consider new realignments?

  Mark Twain wrote that “Satan made Sydney” . . . he quoted an unknown traveler; I believe perhaps one of us who actually knew, sí?

  You are very progressive, Mr. Chairman. As I’m sure you know, your youth was not fully appreciated in the descent by the other masters, but they have overlooked your shrewd forward thinking.

  De nada. Carlos stood, feeling McGuire’s will begin to bend then twist out of his hold. A sudden concentration of power is what made Fallon Nuit. We cannot have that in the empire again. Transylvania concerns me, as does Africa. But we will not discuss China—too powerful and too old to take by storm. Carlos moved to the window again, his hands behind his back as he studied the moon.

  McGuire nodded. True. But Transylvania, especially the Russian provinces and the old Czech Republic, concerns us all, the Aussie said, his gaze level at Carlos’s back, but weakening. Thank you, for even considering my request, he added quickly, then summarily disengaged the negotiation in Dananu and pulled out of the negotiation-lock.

  Carlos waited, allowing the man to collect himself. The exchange was no joke. It took serious focus just to seem unflustered by it. It hadn’t helped that McGuire was a little high from Damali’s scent. Carlos returned to his chair, sitting down, then leaned back casually and breathed out a slow, unseen exhale.

  “Tomorrow evening,” McGuire said brightly, appearing recovered, “once the other masters have arrived, we have something special planned.”

  Carlos made a tent with his hands before his lips, his elbows resting on the high arms of the chair and kept his eyes on the man behind the desk. He didn’t like surprises. “Talk to me,” he said, and then smiled.

  “We’ve got this game here called the Masters Cup Hunt.” The Aussie stood, smiled and looked out of the window. “In the heartland, the dirt is red—iron ore—nothing but rocks, sandstone flats, goes on for miles—it’s the bloody core of the continent.”

  Intrigued but wary, Carlos stood and went to the window again to look out. “Extreme sports in the desert plains?”

  “Tomorrow is a full moon, and the were-roos can only come up to feed then. Six-hundred-pound beasts. Can flip a Range Rover with their tails.” The Aussie chuckled. “It’s bloody beautiful huntin’, mate. A man of your prowess would love this. The feed after the hunt is awesome . . . and the ladies love it.”

  The Aussie had definitely been compromised by the negotiation and the scent of Neteru. He’d dropped all formalities, and his thick Australian brogue almost slurred. Most excellent.

  “Objective and wager?” Carlos took his time showing enthusiasm. Street sense told him this was a good place to get smoked and have it look like an accident. But he needed to know more, had to understand how they might possibly come at him. Relax, McGuire . . . take the bait.

  McGuire laughed. “Every man has to put a piece of land, or a territory on the table. Somethin’ sweet that he’s willing to gamble, against somethin’ he really wants to win . . . like a barmaid’s blush.”

  “Rules of engagement?”

  “A human driver, no intervention, unless crossing prayer lines is imminent.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment.

  “Lost a few championship drivers when their Jeeps or Range Rovers crashed. Human drivers can’t see the lines, so the master riding shotgun has to help steer while using only conventional weapons—crossbow and silver-tipped arrows—to bring down the were. Those bloody bastards breed like vermin in the region. Incineration is ten points; tackle and chain it alive, or behead it before
it burns, twenty.” The Aussie wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shuddered from the increasing effect of Neteru in the castle. “All while moving between eighty to hundred miles per hour.

  “Ugly sort, too,” McGuire went on. “Huge fangs, drooling acid, thirteen-inch claws that they can’t retract, strong as bloody hell. They use portals to go underground, then pop up outta nowhere to flip ya. But we gotta make the game interesting. You can’t use your powers unless you’re in mortal danger. Then, you can use flight to keep away from the lines, but you lose what you’ve put on the table. Winner takes all. You’ll love it.”

  “What time do we play?”

  The Aussie’s grin widened. “From sunset till two A.M. The course runs from where there’s a human sacred rock formation, Uluru—Ayers Rock, goes up for eleven hundred feet, glows red, changes color during the day the humans tell us, and is covered in twenty-thousand-year-old prayers that will fry your ass if you bump it. The whole course runs to the other marker, Kata Tjuta—the Olgas, fifty-three kilometers west, to the sacred human stone markers, thirty-six gigantic rock domes that hide gorges and crevices. Fucking incredible, Mr. Chairman, if I do say so, myself.”

  “And while we’re out, the ladies?”

  “Oh, mate, it’s way too taxing on a female. They watch from the choppers. Makes ’em—”

  “I hear you,” Carlos said, holding up a hand. This could allow him to get them all together, even before the concert. With a blood sport going on, it would be easier to detect alliegences, if any. And with adrenaline pumping through their systems, if one of them bit his man, Berkfield, he’d smell it for sure. Against his better judgment, Carlos found the allure of it thrilling, but what was more essential was the fact that it presented an opportunity to take out an opponent and make it seem like an accident. If he could do that, then the threat level on Damali’s whack plan would be reduced. Carlos chuckled. “My problem will be trying to figure out what I’m willing to put on the table.”

  The Aussie smiled. “Sir, you have many assets that I’m sure would bait the foreign ambassadors . . . and I know you don’t doubt your own abilities, do you?”

  Carlos’s deep laughter filled the room. “I never doubt my own abilities, hombre.” He knew where his host was going, but wanted the man to tell him out of his own mouth. It was always best to ferret out for sure where an adversary was coming from.

  “If you put your wife on the table, I’m sure no one would be offended, sir.” McGuire took a deep swig from his skein, watching Carlos’s reaction over the rim of his cup.

  Carlos smiled. “I’m offended,” he said after a pregnant pause that made the Aussie set down his cup with care, “that no one would ask me first for my council seat.”

  The Aussie choked and spit out his blood. “That’s not on the table, is it?”

  “No,” Carlos said, standing. He walked away from the table, dismissing the comment. “I’m just surprised that wasn’t your first request.”

  Carlos could feel the Aussie’s penetrating gaze on his back and he turned around with a smile. “But I understand. She is magnificent.” Carlos shook his head and walked back to the desk. “You’re high, McGuire, so I’ll take your request as a compliment.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he sputtered, trying to regain his composure. “I meant no offense. Just admiring one of your finest assets.”

  Carlos’s expression hardened. “Just so you know, any other time that kinda shit will get you killed in your own home.”

  When the color drained from McGuire’s face, Carlos sighed. The man wiped his nose again with the back of his hand.

  “You might want to bargain with the Transylvanian ambassador for some of his estates, but do not ever bet against me,” Carlos said, no threat in his tone, just amusement over the proposed wager. “I’m telling you that because you’re cool. Not quite like the rest.” A slow chuckle of appreciation bubbled up. “Damn, man, you just flat-out told me—I like the honesty in that. You Australians are all right.”

  Relief swept through McGuire and he laughed with Carlos. “You’re gonna make my old lady put me out in the daylight. Already got her in chains in the basement, the scent is making her chuck a berko—she’s totally wonky. Before your wife ate, she was begging me for a ménage a trois, or couples . . . and I told her I’d see what I could do, would propose it to you man-to-man later. Then after your woman put on her perfume to get ready for bed, Evie began screaming madness about your wife being a human, and me being daft. But I told her that if her jealousy made her say anything that offends, even after eighty years, I’d rip ’er heart out myself.”

  “I’ve told Damali that she had to tone down her arousal, but we’ve only been together a few months and she still likes what the fragrance does to me,” Carlos said, laughing and slinging an arm over his companion’s shoulders.

  When the other master slightly stiffened in reflex, Carlos gave him a relaxed tug, holding him firm and slipping into casual urban language to bond them. If his host thought that he only spoke that way around him, then it would give him a false sense of security; make him feel closer to Carlos than the other masters. “It’s cool man, chill. I wasn’t coming in for a kill.” He wanted McGuire to tell him more about this new variable neither he nor Damali had considered—the female vamps.

  McGuire audibly let out a breath, turned and shook Carlos’s hand. “Mr. Councilman, you’re all right. A fair cobber, no tight-arse.”

  To this Carlos could only laugh. “We’re both young men, and our territories are relatively new—not like the old boys in the other sectors, as regions go. Both territories were settled by their fair share of criminals, no doubt we hail from that, too, in our former lives; were never bluebloods.” He eyed the master beside him. “But young or old, power is power, man. Believe that shit.”

  A deep resounding belly laugh came from the Aussie, and he threw his head back, fangs glistening. “I thought this visit was going to be a torture—since we’re speaking freely, mate.” Excitement shone in his merry eyes. “After the hunt, we could jog the choppers through the Outback in the Southern territory, and cross over to hit Sydney, which is just a few clicks away, maybe sail back up the coast to Queensland. Aw, Rivera, Sydney has the best dining . . .”

  Alarmed at the prospect of taking four masters and their entourages through a densely populated city, with a Guardian team to arrive shortly, and Damali in tow, Carlos politely declined. “Let us savor the experience and try not to squeeze everything into one night, my friend. We could find ourselves bloated and in the sun that way. Then the older dignitaries would have every right to call us reckless.”

  “True words,” McGuire agreed. “All righty, then, we’ll do the formal pomp and circumstance banquet here after the hunt, get our wits for the next night; we can do Sydney after your lady’s concert. Now that is going to be a night to remember.”

  “Much better plan,” Carlos said, and resumed walking them both out of the study.

  The Aussie paused as they stood at the bottom of the main staircase, looked up, and closed his eyes. “She actually drew the Isis on you, mate?” He shuddered, and rubbed his mouth, but his fangs didn’t retract.

  Carlos chuckled and allowed his voice to dip sensually, a new lie forming in his mind. “Yeah . . . but that stays just between us. She’s got it on her.”

  McGuire opened his eyes and stared at Carlos. “You lucky bastard,” he whispered.

  “Since we’re cool,” Carlos said slowly, watching the Aussie practically writhe with anticipation, “I can send her to your room one night, with both the Isis and the dagger in her hand.”

  “Don’t game me like that, mate,” he said as he swayed in Carlos’s hold. He looked at him hard, but his eyes were practically pleading. “You serious?”

  “Watch my back on the hunt, and I’d have no option but to fulfill at least one of your desires. I told you we were cool.”

  The Aussie closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and shuddered again. He opened his ey
es and cast a wistful glance up the staircase. “She’ll wear the fragrance, too, won’t she?”

  “Of course,” Carlos murmured.

  “You’re gonna make me kill my mate for her.”

  “Do what you have to do, but the offer stands . . . if you want it.”

  They both stared at each other for a moment.

  “When?” The Aussie’s breaths were so irregular now that he put his hand over his chest as though fighting to concentrate on the normally involuntary reflex.

  “After the concert,” Carlos said carefully. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to part with her myself after the hunt.” McGuire nodded. “At the banquet, we’re all gonna be amped. Just make sure that nobody rushes me for her. I’ll dust her myself before I allow any other master to just take my shit.”

  “Of, course,” the Aussie said with authority. “It’s a matter of honor.” Then he smiled. “And I, for one, definitely don’t want you to dust her before I’ve been with her.”

  Carlos extended his fist for a pound. The Aussie just looked at it, seeming unsure what to do.

  “Like this, man,” Carlos said laughing, showing the foreigner how to give back a pound. “That means we’re boys, cool . . . we blood. Mi casa es su casa, type of shit. You watch my back; I’ll watch yours. What I got, I’ll share . . . if you just be cool.”

  “Done,” the Aussie said.

  “Cool.”

  “Tell her I’m honored,” the Aussie murmured.

  Carlos just nodded. “Treat her right, and we’ll be peace.”

  “I’ll do her right, sir.” His gaze was fastened to the staircase, then went to the ceiling where their suite was. “I will not dishonor this rare gift, I assure you.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Carlos said, breaking the seduction trance. “Talking about this is working me like daylight.”

  McGuire this time offered his fist first. “Catch you later, mate. I’m right there with you. Mi casa definitely es su casa . . . and if you ever want Evie, or anything else I’ve got, just let me know. No worries.”