The One We Answer To: A Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 3)

by Daniels, May Ellis

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AARON

  “THOUGHT YOU WAS dead,” Friday says.

  He looks sheepish. Ashamed. Scared. A bit awed.

  Shocker.

  I drop some fang to show the Skin gangbanger what’s up.

  Friday flinches, twists a gleaming gold ring stamped with the letter ‘F’. Bling won’t buy him shit from a monster like me, and he knows it.

  We’re leaning against Friday’s bullet riddled SUV. The shipping yard is a wreck of twisted, burning metal and bleeding wounded and unmoving bodies. My MC’s busy tossing Stricken corpses on a flaming helicopter.

  “Thought I was too,” I say, remembering Lily’s fire searing into my chest.

  Cockbrother.

  Connor’s last words before the vulture plucked him from my claws.

  The Stricken motherfucker. Told me where Lily’s headed, though.

  If he wasn’t full of shit.

  Friday’s doing not bad for a dude who was nearly blown up by an Apache helicopter missile, then witnessed a title-fight Stricken vs. Pureblood brawl. He’s dripping sweat and his fancy suit’s all filthy and ripped to shit, but at least he’s standing.

  “How’d you know him?” I ask. “The rich prick in the helicopter?”

  Friday gives me a look like its none of my business. Which is true, but I motion to the hell-zone spread out before us and say, “Things might’ve changed a little, yeah? Now’s not the time to be losing allies, old friend.”

  Friday rolls a giant gold ring between his fingers, then says, “Con came around—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” I say. “Con? That what he calls himself?”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Why? Mean something?”

  “No. Nevermind. He’s a fucking dead man. That’s his new name.”

  I rub the wound on my shoulder from when the black vulture snatched me in its beak. It’s strangely slow to heal. That and the acid burn on my hip from where the demented doctor threw that orange powder on my shadow-wolf. Both are still fucking paining me. Other than that I’m whole, except for being way beyond pissed off about losing Connor Lerrick. I had him beneath me. A couple more seconds and the Stricken sack-of-shit’s black heart would’ve been beating in my clawed hand—

  A rumbling growl escapes my lips.

  Friday gives me a nervous look, then says, “Can you control it?”

  Fucking Skins. Always with the questions.

  “Sometimes,” I say, really not wanting to get into it.

  I rub my face in my hands and shout at a prospect to find me a bottle of something strong, then light a smoke and take a deep, appreciative drag.

  Cigarette smoke.

  The miracle cure for life’s bullshit.

  I exhale, thinking about Connor Lerrick and the Collazo Cartel. I always knew Carlos Collazo couldn’t be trusted. But what the fuck is Connor doing hanging with outlaw drug dealers and street crews? Slumming? Nah. Connor didn’t break bad just because he got bored being rich and privileged.

  There’s a piece missing.

  Something I can’t see, so I order Friday to tell me everything he knows about…Con. The name makes me grin. Douchebag rich boy even picked a douchebag AKA.

  Friday watches Blue tear into a Stricken’s chest, swallows hard and says, “Anyway bro, fuck. I swear I thought you was dead.”

  “You already said that,” I growl.

  Friday licks his lips. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  “So tell me.”

  Friday takes a deep breath. “Con showed up a couple days after Collazo ambushed my crew and your MC at the equipment yard. Said he had an offer we couldn’t refuse. We lost a lot of muscle during that ambush. Didn’t even know if the Lockdown Crew would make it out the other side. So I went to meet him. Alone. Like he said.”

  I’m gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches. Connor organized the Cartel’s ambush against my MC. I fucking know it. He used me to mark Lily and wake her animal, then he tried to off me, and I fucking hate the fact that Lily and my history will always be tied up with that scheming little rat motherfucker—

  “What was the offer?”

  Friday looses a grim laugh. “So I come down here—to those fucking boats right over there. Thinking, all right, I’ve had solid run. Shit was already going down. The moon changing. Madness and mayhem across the globe. So I show up here and get patted down by a couple Mexican army dudes. Hand my Glock over. Walk into the boat, chin held high, like a fucking boss, you know? Who do I find sitting pretty in the ship’s bridge? Con and fucking Carlos Collazo himself.”

  “The fucker who’d just hit your crew.”

  “Bet your ass.” Friday shakes his head. “Thought I was finished. So I ask for a cigar. Keeping it boss. On fucking lockdown, right? Con hands me a pricey Cuban. Carlos says nothing. We head outside, look out over the city. The fires were just starting downtown. I lit up that Cuban and smoked it like a motherfucker, expecting a bullet in the head any second.”

  “It never came.”

  Friday raps his knuckles on his forehead and says, “Con offered me a deal. Forget my beef with Collazo and the Lockdown Crew could have Seattle, and maybe Portland too if I did well for him.”

  “What? Drugs?”

  Friday shakes his head. “Nah, bro. Everything. Drugs. Guns. Women. Con said things were changing. Opening up. Said it was the fucking Wild West all over again. Time for a man to stake a claim. Said power was the only law. Said alliances were even more important now than they were in the old days.”

  I can’t help but laugh. A weak-assed chickenshit bitch like Connor Lerrick preaching about power being law? Never have I met a dude who’s idea of himself is so far removed from who he actually is.

  “Did you know he was—”

  “A freak?”

  “Freak?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Like you. A fucking weird-assed animal freak.”

  Skins are the freaks, I almost say. The unnatural ones. But I let it slide.

  “That prick’s nothing like me,” I snarl, dropping a bit of fang and hoping Friday gets the point. Ha.

  “Didn’t look that way from here, Prez. Fact it looked like you two have everything in common.”

  I grip the SUV in both hands. Dig my claws into the metal and drag them through, leaving a set of four-inch long gouges. “You need to stop saying that, bro. Trust me. We might look alike. In some ways. But you don’t know the whole story. You’re blind. A fucking Skin.”

  “Tell me the story, then.”

  “Some other time.”

  “To answer your question, no. He never showed me…that fucking thing…”

  I glance around the yard. My MC’s about finished making sure the dead Stricken stay dead. Almost time to hit the road. Connor said Lily went to see her father. At least I think that’s what he said. It’s all I got to go on. So I turn to Friday and say, “You took Con and Carlos’ offer.”

  “Hells yeah,” Friday says. “I jumped on it. Basically the same dope slinging I been doing my whole life, just with a different cracker fronting product.”

  “That lasted—what? Couple weeks?”

  “Yeah,” Friday says, shaking his head. “Don’t know what happened.”

  “You got downsized, ghetto boy,” I say. “They used you to maintain control over Seattle while they dealt with more important shit elsewhere. Maybe consolidated power in—”

  I cut myself short. The lying, scheming motherfucker.

  “Where, Prez?” Friday says. “Where’d you think—”

  I raise my hand for silence. My wolf’s pacing and snarling. It’s close. I can almost see the missing piece…was it something Nash said?

  Yeah.

  I call my VP over. Nash sprints across the lot on all fours, the mad-as-fuck hyena straining against his collar. Friday presses himself into the SUV while Nash stands and his skin ripples and the animal retreats.

  “What’s up, Prez?” Nash asks, picking his teeth after a righteous feed.

  “They all Str
icken? The paramilitary goons?”

  “Every single one,” Nash says, staring at Friday with a vicious gleam in his eye.

  “Yo, uh, could you get him to—”

  “What about this sack of shit Skin?” Nash asks. “You decided?”

  I look at Friday. “Not yet. I’m thinking about Lerrick. Why he was rolling with Collazo’s crew. You said something about a Stricken in Mexico City that assassinated the President? Where’d you hear about that?”

  Nash shrugs. “A Stricken kill bleated it before I ripped out its heart.”

  “Yeah? Said the dude called himself the Spotted Stalker?”

  “And the Lord of Near and Nigh. Lots of fucked-up emperor-sounding names. Typical Stricken bullshit. Why?”

  I take a bottle of tequila from one of the crew, down what’s left, then toss the bottle into a bonfire. “Because Connor’s been playing us, that’s why.”

  “That’s pretty fucking clear—”

  “No. Not only with the cartel. I mean since day one.”

  Nash paces in a quick circle and asks how so.

  “I think the asshole making a claim in Mexico City is one of Lily’s packmates.”

  “A Risen?” Nash says, barking the word.

  Friday looks about to make a run for it.

  “Yeah,” I say, setting my hand on Friday’s shoulder. “Think about it. Carlos ‘The Jackal’ Collazo owns Mexico City. No way this Spotted Stalker jerkoff is making a play without Carlos backing him. Now we know Carlos and Connor are tight. Which means—”

  “The lying fuck,” Nash growls.

  “Since day one. Remember what Connor’s father said? August wanted to stay in power. Loved the Skin world. The money and posh lifestyle. All the corrupt bullshit of Skins. Called the Purebloods a bunch of flea-ridden feral animals. That’s why he tried to murder Lily’s Risen packmates. He wanted to prevent the Fallen from Becoming.”

  “Connor knew his pops wasn’t the Fallen,” Nash says, real quiet. “But he needed Lily’s help to kill him.”

  “So he brought her to my bar that night and had his crew shoot it up, hoping I’d mark Lily and wake her animal, then told her that bullshit about his father being the Fallen and how if she killed him our animals would be banished. Told her exactly what she needed to hear. Why? Because Connor’s been working to have the Fallen Become. Since before he sent Lily to meet me.”

  “And now he has a Risen at his side.”

  “In Mexico City,” I say. “That’s where it’s going down. Connor needs two more of Lily’s Risen packmates to summon the Fallen from the Bloodless Land.”

  “That fucking Inuit guy—”

  “And the skinny Japanese chick. The two Lily brought back after August had their throat’s slit.”

  A hollow pit of foreboding spreads through my gut.

  Lily. She’s alone with her Risen packmates.

  And the Fallen’s hunting her—

  Friday’s looking at us like we’ve both lost our minds. Then he says, “No idea what you homies are gabbing about. But what I want to know is—”

  “Where does this leave you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Leaves you fetching those duffel bags over there, Skin,” Nash growls.

  Friday’s face hardens. “Not fetching shit for no honkey motherfucker.”

  “That right?” Nash says, dropping claw. “You might want to rethink—”

  I step between the two. Tell Nash to chill out. Then I ask Friday what’s in the duffels.

  Friday shrugs. “Thought you was dead, Prez.”

  “What the fuck does that mean? I know it’s not cash. Connor and Collazo have no use for cash now.”

  Friday sighs, runs over to one of the duffels, brings it back, tosses it at my feet.

  “Open it,” I say.

  Friday wavers.

  “Open it,” Nash growls

  Friday leans down, unzips the bag.

  I peer inside.

  The bag is full of severed heads.

  Nash looks in, howls, and then fast as fuck he has Friday pinned against the SUV, his hands around the gangbanger’s throat. “You’re a corpse, traitor,” Nash screams.

  I put my hand on my VP’s shoulder and tell him to back off. A while ago Nash might’ve hesitated. But not now. He nods, releases Friday.

  “Who were they?” I ask, just to be sure.

  Friday shrugs. “Outlaw bikers.”

  “Connor paid you in drugs and guns. The Lockdown Crew became his kill squad here in Seattle.”

  “Didn’t make much of it. Consolidating my turf. White boy paid me for what I would’a done anyway.”

  “Any Pureblood cuts in there?”

  “A few.”

  So that seals it.

  Nash is right. Friday’s a talking dead man.

  “Same shit down the entire coast?” I ask.

  Friday nods. “Think so. You bikers…your heads are worth somethin’ now. Con pays well.”

  “Any like me and Nash? Any…freaks?”

  Friday smiles. “A couple.”

  “How’d you kill ‘em?”

  “Con explained it. Said you freaks couldn’t resist a feed. So we set out bait like he showed us. Drew the freaks in. Then…” Friday smashes his hands together. “Boom! Another dead honkey.”

  “Those were my packmates,” I say, my voice flat and even.

  “Don’t regret what I did,” Friday says, brushing a speck of dirt from his suit collar. “End times, bro. The whole world up for grabs. I made my play.”

  “No,” I say, nodding to Nash. “You got played. We all did. Only difference is…we’ll survive.”

  Friday’s dead before I make it three steps toward my feed.

  ***

  “What the fuck was that thing?” Nash screams over his Harley’s roaring engine.

  It’s pissing rain. We’re picking our way through Seattle’s ruined streets, dodging chasms spewing black smoke and and burning vehicles and dead bodies. The city’s oddly quiet. The dead scattered around and the fires are the only signs of the mayhem that hit not too long ago. It’s almost like the Stricken have moved on to more fruitful killing grounds. Or maybe they’re gathering forces somewhere. I’m sighting a bit into the future to make sure there’s no black-blooded pack about to pounce out of an alley.

  So far so good.

  “Vulture,” I yell to Nash. “A fucking big one. Like we saw in the sky when we were heading to Tate’s den.”

  Blue’s riding on my left. “Didn’t scent like a normal Stricken.”

  No, I think. It didn’t. It scented a fuck of a lot stronger. And not like a Minion, either. More like…a Risen. But unless the vulture was that dude from Mexico City coming up for a joyride that doesn’t make any sense.

  There are only five Risen.

  Who would want to keep Connor Lerrick alive?

  Collazo, for sure. But beyond him? Fuck knows.

  I pull up beside the Church of the Immaculate Conception.

  Like the rest of us, it’s seen better days.

  “Looted,” Nash says.

  I nod. The church’s carved wooden doors have been smashed in. A few corpses are sprawled up the entry steps, all Skins, the desperate and devout seeking holy sanctuary during end times. Smoke’s spilling from a blackened corner of the church’s roof. I hop off my Harley, dig in my pocket for my Zippo and light a smoke.

  Where’s your almighty god now, you greedy, polluting motherfuckers?

  A shadow slips across the church entrance, then disappears into the darkness. I wipe the rain from my eyes and order my MC to wait outside. Everyone but Nash and Blue. Those brothers I want with me. Could be old Father Andres survived the Stricken packs.

  More likely he didn’t.

  But I’m not leaving Seattle without reaching out to the wily old wolf.

  I hop off my bike and summon my shadow-wolves. They slink inside and then I’m living through them, seeing and scenting as they do. The church pews are burned to ash. The al
tar ruined. Statues of Christ and the rest of the holy rollers have been smashed up and tossed around. Empty idols at the end of the world.

  My shadow-wolves slip through the church, scenting, seeking a Stricken ambush. There’s nothing. Then one of them hears a wheezing breath. My wolf slinks down the center aisle, stepping carefully over shards of stained glass.

  Something’s hiding behind the altar.

  I send the other two wolves to join the first. They ring the altar, then press forward. Glide around the pulpit—

  “Fucking hell,” I mutter.

  I sprint up the steps and slip inside, then race toward the pulpit. Father Andres is there, lying crumpled on the ground, his chest torn open, his skin sallow and slick. He looks so much like a corpse for a second I think the old man’s already gone. But then he wheezes and turns his head, wincing against the pain the motion brings, and his priest’s cassock falls open and I see his heart is still beating where it should be.

  Old dude might have a chance.

  When the Father sees me he gives a faint flicker of a smile and reaches a hand up. His eyes burn like someone well into a deathly fever.

  I bend beside him, take his hand, tell him its not too bad, he’s going to make it, he just needs a feed is all.

  But the words ring hollow.

  Father Andres makes to speak. Blood bubbles between his lips.

  “Help me carry him outside,” I say to Nash and Blue.

  We lift the old man up. He feels weightless. His bones as thin and brittle as a bird’s. Father Andres’ burning eyes never leave me as we make our way outside, onto the manicured church grounds.

  The Father tries to speak again.

  I tell him to be quiet. Conserve his strength.

  The old man tightens his jaw. Something’s nagging at him.

  We set the Father down between the roots of a gnarled oak tree. Raindrops cascade through spring leaves, run through my hair and down my Pureblood MC cut. The air is crisp and cool. First rain in a long while for this time of year. It’ll wash the blood from the streets, at least.

  Father Andres’ wolf is roaming close. The old man’s brow deepens and his fangs drop and he reaches up and rips his cossack down, exposing his neck as it swells tight against the iron collar—