Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn

by Viehl, Lynn

  She hadn’t lied to Jamys about Stryker; she simply hadn’t volunteered certain details. While she didn’t know exactly where Stryker himself was, she knew precisely how to find out.

  Once Chris drove into the downtown area of Key West, she parked the Lexus in a metered lot and from there walked three blocks past the open bars and the closed gift shops to Free Wheeling. Although the front windows of the garage were dark, and the doors locked, she knew the owner kept the place open twenty-four hours a day.

  Chris made her way around to the back lot, where rows of cars and bikes in various stages of repair sat parked behind a razor-wire-topped chain-link fence. The warped sheet of plywood that currently served as the garage’s back door hung slightly askew on its hinges, but it opened shortly after she rapped out an SOS on it.

  The grizzly bear of a man who peered out at her didn’t offer a welcome. He did take a pull from his beer bottle before he demanded, “What the fuck you want?”

  “It’s me, Bug.” When he didn’t react, she added, “Chris Lang.”

  “Well, well. Little Christi Lang, all growed up.” He drained the bottle in his hand and tossed it in the garbage barrel to her left. “Your old man owes me two hundred bucks.”

  Good luck collecting, she thought. “I need to find someone, and I’ll pay you four hundred to help me.”

  “Cash?” When she nodded, Bug shoved the plywood out another foot. “Come on in.”

  Chris followed him through a dirt-and-grease-encrusted labyrinth of car parts, toolboxes, and motors to a card table with four folding chairs, two men inspecting the cards in their hands, and several mounds of poker chips.

  “You remember Cody,” Bug said, nodding to the rail-thin mechanic in filthy coveralls on one side of the table. “Loot you don’t.”

  Chris eyed the man in the polo shirt, whose appearance was so clean and neat that next to Bug, Cody, and the garage around him he resembled an alien life-form. “Hello.”

  “I’ll see the cash first,” Bug said.

  As a gesture of good faith, Chris took out her wallet and counted out eight fifties onto the table. That left her with a couple of twenties and change, but if she needed more money, Jamys could convince a mortal to donate to their cause.

  Bug picked up the bills and held each one up to the light to see the embedded security strip before he shoved the money into the front pocket of his bib overalls. “Who’s worth this much to you, little girl? Not your daddy.”

  Chris tucked her arms around her waist. “I need to find Stryker.”

  “Shit, no, you don’t.” Bug went over to an ancient cooler and rummaged around in the floating ice until he pulled a fresh beer bottle from it. “Here.” He held it out to her, but when she tried to take it, he pulled it back. “You old enough to drink this, now, right?”

  “You got wasted with my dad at every one of my birthdays,” Chris reminded him. “So, what, you can’t count now?”

  Bug chuckled and gave her the bottle. “Still a mouthy little twerp. I always liked that about you, Christi. Forget about that ass-peddler and play some cards with us.” He sat down and picked up his hand. “Go on. Deal her in, Cody.”

  “Bug.” Chris sat down in the chair beside him. “I’m not a little girl anymore. A lot is riding on this. Tell me where he is.”

  Bug regarded her over the fan of his cards. “I’ll tell you after you play a hand. Bitch, and you’re outta here.”

  Chris took a swig of the icy beer and sighed. “Deal me in, Cody.”

  She hadn’t played poker since Frankie had taught her how during one of the summers they’d spent in the Keys. Still, it was like riding a bike, and in no time she had assembled a full house.

  “I’m done.” Loot tossed his cards down. “You’ve known Bug for a while, Christi?”

  “It’s Chris.” She parked the rest of the chips they’d fronted her in the pot. “And yeah, I’ve known him since I was in diapers.”

  Loot leaned forward. “Do you know how he got his name?”

  “No one does,” Cody put in. “But they think it’s because he won’t wear a face shield when he rides.”

  “That’s not it.” Chris glanced at Bug, who threw his hand down in disgust. “You never told your friends?”

  “No one’s fucking business.” He grinned as he looked over her head. “Your old man owes me two hundred bucks, though, Christi.”

  “I heard you the first time.” Chris turned to Loot. “It’s not because of the bugs he eats on the bike. He’s named after the letters B-U-G, for—”

  “Christi?”

  The sound of the voice behind her made the cards fall out of Chris’s hand. She gazed over her hand-winning full house at Bug. “You knew he was coming here?”

  “Whose chair do you think you’re sitting in, sweet cheeks?” Bug jerked his head as he stood up, and Cody and Loot followed him outside, leaving her alone with the man behind her.

  “Christi. Jesus. What are you doing here, honey?”

  “Buying information.” Chris waited as he moved around to face her. “Hi, Daddy.”

  He stared at her before he headed for Bug’s cooler. “I need a drink.”

  Chris watched him. Over the eight years since the last time she’d seen him, Frankie Lang had put on fifty pounds, tanned himself to a muddy bronze, and lost most of the hair atop his head. He wasn’t fat, exactly; she could still make out some of the muscles in his arms and chest, and his surf-god face hadn’t bloated too much. Older chicks in dimly lit bars were probably still receptive to his bullshit.

  But here under the naked bulb hanging over Bug’s card table, Chris could see that the booze had busted a hand’s width of capillaries on and around his nose. He’d always loved Southern Comfort, and from the faint yellowing of the whites of his eyes SoCo had returned the favor by fucking with his liver. She saw a scar on his chin she couldn’t remember, and the sulking droop of his mouth that she’d never forgotten. Unlike her, Frankie Lang had never growed up.

  “Bug tell you to come down here?” her father asked as he sat down across from her. “I’m fine, you know. I laid off the hard stuff last summer.” He lifted his bottle and drained a third of the contents before taking a breath. He seemed to realize then that she hadn’t said anything, and tried again, this time with a wavering grin. “So, how have you been, kid?”

  “How have I been?” She pretended to think. “When you didn’t come home that night, I was confused. When Mom started to fall apart, I was scared. Hungry, too—the food started to run out right after you and the money did. When the bank foreclosed on the house and kicked us out on the street, I was terrified. When they put Mom in the nuthouse and me in foster care, I was a basket case. But then, so was Mom.”

  “That’s too bad.” He reached across the table and tried to take her hand. “Your mom’s doing okay now, though, right?”

  Chris couldn’t believe it. Could not. “Mom killed herself two years after you bailed. Exactly two years to the day.”

  He drew his hand back. “Sorry to hear that. Adele never was right in the head. Hey.” Frankie jolted back as Chris shoved the table into his chest. “It’s the truth, Christi. And it wasn’t because of me, either. She’d been seeing shrinks all her life, long before me.”

  “So, what, you think she was better off slitting her wrists and bleeding out in the bathtub?” Chris demanded.

  Frankie swallowed. “They told you how she offed herself?”

  “I know how she did it because I’m the one who found her.” She wanted to describe every horrific detail so he could enjoy a few nightmares, but if she did, she’d puke up the beer. “After the funeral my grandmother blamed me for Mom’s suicide and turned me over to the state. I went back into foster care. Don’t you look at me like that. Like you’re sorry for me.”

  “Can’t help it,” he muttered. “I am. No kid should have to deal with what you been through. If I could go back and change things, Christi, I would.”

  “The hell.” The laugh that to
re out of her hurt her throat. “I can’t believe you’ve been here in the Keys, all this time. I should have guessed. Drinking and screwing around were the only two things you were ever good at. Well, at least now I know.” She gestured at the door. “You can run away again now.”

  He started to get up, and then dropped down. “I got one thing I gotta say.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’ve heard all I ever need to, Daddy.”

  “It’s why I took off,” he snapped, and then looked immediately ashamed. “The night before, Adele got drunk and we had a fight about you. She said you weren’t my kid. That some other guy got her pregnant.”

  “Mom told you that you’re not my father?” Chris asked, to be sure she hadn’t heard it wrong.

  “Yeah.” He moved his shoulders. “I always suspected anyway. You don’t look nothing like me. When you were born, she swore you were two months early, but the doctors didn’t put you in that baby microwave thing after you came out. You were just little.”

  For Chris it was a toss-up between weeping with relief and shooting him in the head. “Did Mom happen to mention who is my biological father?”

  “It was some French guy she met a couple months before me, when she went to the Riviera with her folks. By the time we met, she was already a month gone with you.” He got to his feet. “So, okay, you need anything? Money? A place to stay?”

  “I need you to get away from me, Frankie,” she said honestly. “Right this minute.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He gave her one last guilty look. “I’m sorry, kid. I just can’t … sorry.” He edged around the table and hurried through the back door.

  Chris sat there and stared at nothing in particular until she smelled the sour citrus blend of hand cleaner and Budweiser. “You know about this, Bug?”

  “He stayed with me right after he left Addie.” He parked a fresh beer in front of her before he sat down. “He’s not a bad guy, you know. Only reason he stayed with your mother long as he did was ’cause of you.”

  “Until he found out I wasn’t his kid,” she tacked on. “Then he couldn’t get out fast enough.”

  “Yeah, well, that was a real kick to the dick. If it helps, he stayed plastered for close to a year after.” He beckoned to Cody and Loot, who came in and took their seats. “You deal, Christi.” He shoved a new deck to her.

  “Another time.” She pushed it back. “Where is Stryker?”

  Cody made a ticking sound with his tongue. “That pussy has shark teeth, little girl.”

  “Do you need the cop to leave the room before you tell me, is that it?” As Bug choked on his beer, Cody’s bottle slid out of his hand, and Chris looked at Loot. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”

  “How do you know I’m a cop?” he countered.

  “There’s an unmarked unit parked at the curb. You’ve got a standard-issue thirty-two in that ankle holster you think I haven’t noticed. Your haircut is regulation. There’s no money on the table because outside the rezes gambling is illegal in Florida, and occasionally you have to take a random department polygraph.” Chris offered him a polite smile. “And, of course, Loot isn’t your name because you’re loaded. It’s biker shorthand for Lieutenant.”

  He smiled slowly. “You do know cops.”

  “My best friend works homicide in Fort Lauderdale.” She eyed Bug. “Stryker.”

  “He bounces around Sundown Estates on the east side of the island,” Bug said. “Worked out the deal with a Realtor who’s into whips and chains.” He removed a slip of paper from his bib, wrote on it, and handed it to her. “Entry code for the gate.”

  She slipped the note in her purse as she watched Loot’s face. “You’re not interested in pursuing justice here, Officer?”

  “I’m not KWPD.” His smile was serene. “I fly copters for the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department. Aviation Division, Undercover Operations.”

  “A black-ops chopper copper.” She whistled a single descending note. “Glad I’m not smuggling anything past our borders.” Something occurred to her, and she turned her gaze on Bug. “No wonder you’re so damn antsy. You’re helping him, you narc.”

  “Confidential informant,” Bug corrected, and gave her a wary look. “I don’t need that advertised, either.”

  “My lips are Superglued.” She handed him the beer and got to her feet. “Nice seeing you again, Bug. Gentlemen, have a lovely evening.”

  “Hey,” Loot called after her. “You never told us what the B-U-G means.”

  She glanced back at Bug, who squirmed a little. “Only exactly what he is. Big ugly guy.”

  *

  Jamys diverted from the course Chris had set long enough to sail by Paradise, the boat owner’s private island. Photosensor lights illuminated one small pier that led from a cover into a dense thatch of palm and pine trees. Nestled in the center he spotted the tin roof of a large structure; that was likely the house. No vessels were moored to the pier, and the island appeared deserted. If Christian had been with him, he would have persuaded her to spend the coming day there with him, but she was waiting in Key West.

  Would she be there waiting, or was it all a ruse?

  Jamys had known something had changed the moment Chris had found the strange symbols on the journal’s bookplate. He thought at first she had been frightened, but then he detected the complexity of the dark change in her scent. She felt fear, yes, but there was more to it than that. He knew only too well how mortals smelled when they felt despair, and rage, and disgust. She had felt all those things, and winding through them an abysmal amount of regret.

  Whoever this Stryker was, Christian despised him. He could hear it in her voice each and every time she uttered his name.

  Jamys returned to the Golden Horde’s mapped course and reached the marina rendezvous point at Key West some two hours later, and saw Christian waving to him. He guided the boat to the empty slip she indicated, securing the sails and mooring lines before he climbed out onto the pier.

  “You made it.” She hurled herself at him. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “I took a slight detour.” When she began to pull away, he wrapped his arms around her and kept her close. “I think we should stop our search for the night. There is a place I want to take you. Come on board, and we can go there now.”

  She looked up at him. “Someone else might find the jewels, and you’d miss the chance to rule Ireland. Isn’t that everything you want?”

  “I know what I want tonight.” He caressed her cheek. “It is not Ireland.”

  Her smile slipped. “I get it. You figured out that I didn’t tell you everything about Stryker.” She bumped her forehead into his shoulder three times. “Okay. He hired me to work at some of his parties. I didn’t have sex with anyone, at least, not …” She made a frustrated sound. “Look, everything I did, I did by myself, with people watching me. I’m not proud of it, but I was fifteen and alone and no one else would give me a job.”

  “Was there no one to help you?” he asked. “Your family?”

  “My family.” She made a bitter sound. “My father—the man I thought was my father—was a drunk and a beach bum. He didn’t like finding out I wasn’t his kid, so he left me and my mom. That drove my mother crazy, and she killed herself two years later. My grandparents blamed me for all of it and turned me over to the state. I don’t know who my biological father is, and everyone who knew his name is dead or won’t speak to me, so he’s out of the picture.” She made a dismissive gesture. “That pretty much covers my family.”

  Now he understood so many things about her. “You cannot blame yourself for their actions.”

  “Jamys, I’m the only reason my parents got married, my father left, my mother committed suicide, and my grandparents disowned me.” She blinked a few times. “I didn’t do it on purpose, but yeah, I destroyed my entire family.”

  “Christian.”

  “I’ve learned to live with it,” she assured him. “I didn’t ask to be born. I loved my dad and my mom. I
tried to love my grandparents. I was a good kid—at least, I think I was—until I met Stryker.”

  This was her secret shame? “Christian, you were a desperate child, alone in the world. You did what you had to in order to survive.”

  She shook her head. “I was old enough to know better. I could have stayed in foster care after my mom died.” Her hand went to the cross hidden under her shirt.

  “The cross you wear,” he said, startling her, “it belonged to your mother?”

  She nodded. “She gave it to me the night before she killed herself. Took it off her neck and put it around mine, and said I’d have to carry it now. I thought she was just being crazy again.” She pulled the cross out from her shirt to look at it. “She never took it off, not even when she went swimming or showered. I don’t know why; she wasn’t religious.”

  “Do you wear it to remember her?”

  She shrugged. “I kept it to spite my grandmother; she wouldn’t let me take anything with me when she dumped me in foster care.” Her eyes met his. “I hate what my mom did, but I loved her, too. It’s all I have left of her. And it’s all I have to remind me not to be her.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I know what it is to love someone you hate.” He thought of all the nights he had spent alone in his tower chambers and, before that, locked inside his silence. “I knew what my mother had done, and I didn’t tell my father. I let him think she had been tortured to death in Dublin.” He met her gaze. “It drove him mad, Christian. I let my father become an animal because I could not face what my mother had done to us. Because for all the horror she had brought upon us, I loved her still. So yes, I do understand.”

  “I hope you still feel that way after we do this.” She climbed onto the deck and went below.

  Jamys followed. “You know where Stryker is.”

  “His operation is about a mile from here.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I need to shower and change, and then we’ll have to put together an outfit for you.”

  Sensing she needed some time alone, Jamys went up on deck, and waited until she called his name.