by Kira Brady
“I don’t know.”
“She’s clean,” Benard said. He bent and picked up Emory Corbette’s business card from the floor. “Take a look, Red.” He handed it to Rudrick, who read the message on the back.
“I see.” Rudrick’s fingers tightened on her arms. “You’re holding out on me, Miss Friday.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Perhaps.” He searched her face. “Perhaps not.”
On the floor Hart groaned. He was coming around. Two men picked him up by the arms. Hart was a big man, but they dragged him between them like a rag doll.
“Let’s take this outside.” Rudrick hooked Kayla’s elbow and escorted her toward the door. “Take care of the body,” he ordered over his shoulder.
“What—” Kayla tried to turn back to her sister, but Rudrick wouldn’t let her.
Benard whipped out a flask and poured it over Desi’s body.
She knew what was about to happen, even before he lit the match. Fire erupted, greedily consuming the accelerant, spreading across her sister’s poor corpse.
Kayla froze, a scream caught in her throat. She would have run to beat out those terrible flames, but Rudrick grabbed her shaking shoulders and dragged her out of the room. She fought, uselessly. Shock set in. Her vision blurred.
Her last sight was the pyre. The smell of burning flesh followed them down the hallway and into the wet dusk outside. The rain had slowed to a light mist. Clouds still obscured the sky, but the air seemed bright after the dark of the morgue. The cold wind slapped her wet cheeks. The pavement was littered with dead crows.
“Why?” she screamed. “How could you? You . . . monster!”
“Shut up, human.” Rudrick shook her.
“Human? What are you talking about? You’re crazy. All of you.” Pain thickened her voice. “You can’t do that to her. She’s my sister! My baby sister.”
“It’s what she would have wanted,” Hart said from behind her. His tone was soothing, but his words made no sense. “You don’t want her to come back that way.”
Come back? There was no return from death.
Rudrick’s goons didn’t relax. They formed a loose circle in the street, guns ready. More crows than she’d ever seen were perched on the telephone lines above. Their grating calls seemed tinged with laughter.
“Right, then.” Rudrick released her arm abruptly, and she staggered.
She wrapped her arms around herself, looking to Hart for guidance, but he had his own problems. Rudrick ordered the two men to release him, and they shoved him into the center of the circle. He quickly caught his balance and brushed off his arms, smirking at the men surrounding him, insolent and cocky despite his bruises.
She had to admire his bravado.
He turned toward her and their eyes locked. His strange violet-ringed pupils held danger and desire. The connection burned hot and fast. Her breath caught. She wanted to run to him. A stranger. A dangerous, unpredictable man.
Surprise flickered across his face, and she knew he felt it too. He looked away, unable to hold that vulnerable connection.
“Our lord and master,” Rudrick told Hart, “still harbors this delusion that you will rejoin the fold.”
Hart spat on the ground.
“Funny, I had the same response,” Rudrick said. “The rest of us don’t want your filth. The moon madness is a blight on our sacred bloodline. It doesn’t excuse your behavior.” His lip curled. “A traitor to your own kind.”
Moon madness? Sacred bloodline? What the hell was he talking about?
“I work for whatever fucker pays me,” Hart said. “You want something done? I’ll work for you too. I don’t discriminate.”
“How you could be so stupid as to voluntarily enslave yourself, I can’t imagine. I should put you out of your misery.”
“I’ll be there to welcome you on the other side. Cross my heart.” Hart drew an X over his left breast.
Were these people for real? Kayla searched the street and crumbling buildings on either side, half expecting a movie camera to pop out of the shadows. Nothing. She decided shock must be messing with her hearing. When everyone around you seemed delusional, it might just be you.
“Fortunate for us that you heal quickly. The necklace, dog.” Rudrick motioned for his men to tighten ranks around Hart. “Tell us what you know. Johnny?”
Behind Rudrick, the younger man who’d hit Hart with the rifle stepped into the circle. He took a pair of leather gloves from his coat pocket and made a big show of pulling them on.
Hart didn’t seem worried, though blood still trickled down his forehead. His powerful shoulders cocked back. Amusement played along the crooked line of his lips. “How does Corbette feel about the girl dying under your watch? One human life for a sentimental trinket.”
Rudrick showed a mouthful of pointy white teeth. “Sentimental? Hardly. Don’t tell me you don’t know what it does?” Laughing, he stepped back into the circle. “Single combat. No weapons.”
Kayla felt sick. What was this—Mortal Kombat? What kind of people had her sister been involved with? “You can’t do this,” she protested. “It can’t be legal.”
No one paid her any attention.
Hart began unloading weapons. The rifle strapped to his back went first. The broadsword at his hip, next. Beneath the jacket he wore a holster with two pistols. Out of his pants pockets he pulled a strange brass spyglass, throwing stars, and small knives. She’d never seen such an arsenal except in the movies. He stacked them, lovingly, on his jacket at the edge of the circle.
Hart and Johnny stripped to the waist. And—oh!—if she hadn’t been so anxious she might have admired all that fine muscle and shimmering copper flesh. Both men were ripped. Johnny was younger by about ten years, his sleek body unmarred by battle and time. Black geometric tattoos covered his back and shoulders. Inked feathers twisted up his spine.
Hart was larger, but battered. Purple blotches decorated his ribs. He looked about thirty, but his body had seen a lifetime of fights. Where Johnny was tattooed, Hart bore old white scars that crisscrossed like lace over his tanned skin. Gold bands with runic marks circled his impressive biceps. A silver disk on a leather thong hung from his neck. Both men were exotic and mysterious, but Kayla couldn’t keep her eyes off Hart.
The two contenders circled each other, dancing lightly on their toes. Quick as a whip, Hart lashed out, not with his fist but with his fingers, as if swiping with claws. Johnny managed to dodge back by a hairbreadth.
“No shifting,” Rudrick growled. “Or I’ll let the Thunderbird at you. It’s in your favor, dog.”
Shifting how? They couldn’t fight if they didn’t move from foot to foot. That couldn’t be what he meant. Was Thunderbird some sort of gang caste?
Hart shrugged as if to say, “Who the hell cares?”
After that, the action went so fast it was all Kayla could do to keep track of the combatants. They lunged and dove in sync, partners in some impressively coordinated dance. The movements were a strange mix of martial arts and barroom brawl—anything goes, yet smooth and efficient. Each punch was a close shave away from serious damage.
Their shadows blurred, until Kayla could swear she saw not two men fighting, but two animals—a giant bird and a wolf, snatching at each other with tooth, claw, and razor-sharp beak. It was the oddest sight. First her hearing, now her vision. She was losing it inch by inch.
The gunmen watched the fight hungrily. Out of the corner of her eye, their cheekbones seemed to widen and their eyes glowed.
She tried to laugh it off, but couldn’t shake the feeling. She couldn’t watch. Couldn’t drag her eyes away. Two gladiators locked in combat, sweat and rain-slicked muscles glistening. Sleek and graceful. Vicious and wild.
Hart was tiring, and no wonder, given his recent head injury. His reaction time slowed, so that she could actually see the movements of his hands and legs.
Johnny swiped out with his fist and Hart brought his arm
up seconds too late. The fist connected with his nose and Hart crashed to the ground. Johnny followed him down. Punching. Kicking.
Wetness splattered the concrete, and Kayla realized it was blood.
Blood.
Johnny was going to kill Hart while these lunatics watched and did nothing.
Shock might be wearing on her system, but she couldn’t let that one go. She refused to stand idly by while murder was committed in front of her. How would she live with herself? “Leave him alone!” she shouted. “Stop hurting him!”
Johnny didn’t stop. Running forward, she threw herself on top of Hart and shielded him with her body. He was so much bigger than her; it was laughable that she would try to protect him with her small frame. But she had to do something.
Johnny’s foot came an inch from connecting with her head. She cringed. Stupid move, running into danger like that. She’d never been an act-first, think-later sort of person—that had been Desi’s suit—but adrenaline made her reckless. “Stop hurting him,” she repeated. The jagged asphalt cut into her knees. “Please stop.”
The circle of men was icily still. Disapproving. Dangerous.
She tried not to shake. Beneath her, Hart lay still, his body hot and hard, smelling of sweat, blood, and the forest. She was uncomfortably aware of her breasts pressed against his solid muscle.
“You’d risk your life for this bastard?” Rudrick asked. “He killed his own mother.”
Kayla paused. Was that true? If she let Rudrick distract her, she was going to chicken out. Raising her head, she looked him in the eye and played her only card. “I’m Desiree Friday’s sister. Her confidante. I know her better than anyone. If Desiree hid this necklace you want so badly, I’m the only one who’ll be able to find it.”
Rudrick stared at her. She stared back. He had the same weird violet-rimmed eyes as Hart. Must be some freaky contacts.
The moment stretched out. A billion thoughts raced through her head. If he called her bluff, would he kill her too? Would she die trying to rescue a stranger? Who would the police call to identify her body? There was no one left. Was this how Desi died, recklessly throwing herself into someone else’s problems?
She swallowed her fear. She’d already stuck her foot in. There was no backing out now. “The necklace for his freedom.”
Rudrick glanced from her to Hart. His eyes were calculating. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“I . . . yes.” Hart’s chest vibrated beneath her. Was he laughing?
“I wonder,” Rudrick said, studying Hart, “if you’ll be allowed to pass through the Gate if you die before the blood debt is repaid.”
More nonsense, Kayla thought. But apparently it meant something to Hart, because he tensed.
Rudrick smiled. “I admit the thought of endlessly fighting your enslaved ghost is the only thing that keeps me from killing you. So be it, Miss Friday. You can have your Wolf.”
Wolf? Another strange reference that shot over her head. Ghosts and bogeymen aside, she didn’t trust these men. “Promise you won’t hurt him anymore.” As much as a promise from a lunatic would get her.
Rudrick held up three fingers, scout’s honor. “You find me what I want, Miss Friday, and I promise not to harm a hair on his furry hide—”
Kayla let out a breath.
“—but only if you bring me the necklace by the full moon.”
“What?”
“Three days, Miss Friday. After that all bets are off, and I’ll be forced to make an example of you. Remember that as you hunt.” Rudrick pulled out a business card and bent down to hand it to her. On it was a number, nothing else. “My private line. I’m handling this matter personally. Don’t talk to anyone else.”
He motioned to his men.
And they began to change. Their pupils expanded, growing outward over their irises and covering the whites of their eyes. Their noses lengthened, either to sharp points or hooked beaks. The black of their dusters stretched and split, changing before her eyes into feathers and wings. Their bodies morphed grotesquely. Men, no longer, but giant birds. Three, including Johnny, became man-sized crows. Two others were monstrous things. Feathered and avian, but the size of a pterodactyl. Twenty-foot wingspans. Long, hooked beaks the length of her arm. Claws large enough to pick up a small whale.
Rudrick and the brute Benard—who had remained human—swung themselves onto the necks of the two monster birds. Rudrick gave a mock salute.
Beautiful and terrible, they launched into the air. Gale-force wind rocketed through the street behind them. The giant crows followed closely behind.
Kayla blinked, hard, but it didn’t clear the sight from her eyes. She watched in horror as they soared across the sky and disappeared behind Capitol Hill.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Oh, my God.”
Her brain—her logical, ordered, rational brain—had shorted out.
Chapter 3
“You can get up now,” Hart said, his breath hot on her sensitive neck.
Her cheeks flushed, and she scrambled off him. “What the hell? That did not just happen. I’m seeing things. It must be shock. It must be . . . no. I must have hit my head.” That had to be it.
Stiffly, he pushed himself to his feet. He reached down and grabbed her hand. She focused on the sight of his long, strong fingers and the feel of calluses and heat. It made sense.
Men turning into birds did not.
Fear sunk its claws deep into her gut. What if she really had hit her head and was in some sort of coma? She raised her hands to cover her temples as if she could hold together the tatters of her sanity. The world was too crisp to be a dream. Other than her eyes, her senses were functioning. The wind scraped her skin. The salt air chafed her nose. She bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood. She must be hallucinating. There was an explanation for those birds. There had to be. Grief. Stress. Sleep deprivation. Concussion. Fever. She was too pragmatic to believe in fairy tales. Her mind—the thing she prized most—had cracked.
Hart tugged her up, and she practically flew into the solid wall of his chest. She found herself staring at his collarbone. Another thing that made sense. She understood collarbones, though she’d never before seen one quite so nicely shaped. A sleek pelt of light brown hair covered his chest, running up to the hollow at the base of his throat. Those pecs, even battered, made her mouth go dry. He was too close. She could stick out her tongue and lick him.
What was wrong with her?
“You’re not crazy,” Hart said. His eyes held understanding and pity. Or was it only a shared madness? “You’re not.”
“How . . .” She licked her lips and watched him watch the movement of her tongue. “How can you be sure?”
His hand shot toward her. She reared back. Too slow. He clamped his fingers around the back of her skull, anchoring her. Suddenly his mouth was on hers. Hot and wet. Domineering. Their teeth collided. Her jaw dropped, and he took advantage. His tongue, tasting of coffee and mint, thrust savagely, once, twice. It thawed the cold shock that had shrouded her body. Her core heated. Yes, she thought. More. Forget the monsters. Hart was human and male. Temptation beckoned, more alluring, more powerful than she’d ever felt it.
Before she could react, it was over. He dropped his hand and stepped back, leaving her dazed and strangely empty.
“Don’t know if that proves I’m dreaming or what,” she murmured.
One corner of his mouth turned up. “Dreaming, definitely.”
He was a contradiction: violent one moment, flirting the next. She didn’t know whether to fear for her life or her virginity.
She looked away. Focus, she told herself. Now was not the time to be distracted by a chiseled jaw. There had to be a logical explanation. Mental disorder. Brain cancer. Anything.
But there on the ground, only an inch from her sensible black clogs, lay a feather, long as her leg and shimmering black like an oil slick. The silver tip narrowed to a razor-sharp point. She nudged it with her shoe. There was no bird big e
nough to grow a feather that long. “What is this?”
“Thunderbird feather.”
“Thunderbird,” she repeated. “Are you in some sort of gang?”
He snorted.
“No? This is a bird feather.”
“Yup.”
“What kind of bird is a Thunderbird?”
He raised his eyebrows and pointed one finger at the sky in the direction those monster birds had flown in her imagination.
She swallowed. “You saw that too?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! What is going on here? Is it . . . is it drugs?”
“Well, now, that’s what the medical examiner wrote, ain’t it?” He stretched, half turning away from her. Under his breath, he added, “Chump.”
She didn’t need that thrown back in her face.
When he turned back, his eyes were crinkled in humor. He met her glare with an easy, conspiratorial look, like they were sharing some inside joke. He knew it wasn’t drugs. He didn’t act like he thought she was crazy.
She glanced at the sky. The clouds lay strewn across it like dirty snow. The birds had disappeared. If she ignored the feather at her foot, she could pretend it had never happened.
Listen to her! For someone who prided herself on scientific reasoning, she was being awfully closed-minded. How could she ignore the evidence in front of her? “I know what I think I saw. I just don’t believe it.”
He huffed out a breath. “Shocking.”
“I mean—” She scrambled to recover. “I saw those birds, and I can’t think of an alternate explanation. It just doesn’t make sense. You’re telling me that those men really changed into Thunderbirds, which are”—she searched her memory of Desi’s mythology lectures—“some kind of Native American myth. I might accept the reemergence of some sort of lost species, but men turning into birds? It defies all logic.”
He made a noncommittal noise and bent to pick up his shirt from the wet ground.