The Dead Wolves: An Ashwood Novel (Cursed and Damned Book 1)

by Lee Dignam

  This wasn’t something Cyanide did often, but she had done it before, and as she walked along the mile-long stretch of nightclubs and bars, she found herself tempted. One guy in particular caught her eye. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, and was wearing a leather jacket over a gray t-shirt. He had a cigarette pressed between his lips while his lazy eyes scanned the street from beneath a head of short, brown hair.

  Her feet moved her toward him, veering slightly to the right and putting her on a path where she would come within inches of the man as she passed. Drawn to him by the inescapable sound of his beating heart, she was an asteroid on an uncertain flyby of the Earth, putting the question on everyone’s lips “Will it hit us?”.

  “Hey,” she said to the man, flashing him sharp, incisive eyes.

  He cocked his head to the side, flushing smoke out of his nostrils and cocking an eyebrow. “Yeah?” he asked.

  Cyanide mimicked his movement, cocking her head too. “What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “Chase,” he said, “Name’s Chase.”

  A dull, throbbing pain began to pulse throughout her mouth as her fangs begged to be allowed to descend. It was as close to a racing heartbeat as she would ever get, but the sensation set her body alight all the same. It was the thrill of the bite, the inevitability of it but also the uncertainty. Everyone tasted different, everyone’s blood left a different mark on the vampire.

  She reached for the cigarette between his fingers, took it, and pressed it against her lips. She took a drag, and the smoke filled her undead lungs. Slowly, she pushed the smoke out of her nose as he had done and handed the cigarette back.

  “What are you doing out here all alone, Chase?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Cyanide had a job to do. She knew that. But she also hadn’t fed tonight, and having chosen not to feed upon waking, had put herself in a position where her thirst was controlling her. “I’m just walking,” she said. “But I thought I’d say hi.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Grace,” she said, using the first name that came to mind. “But I didn’t cross over to you to swap pleasantries… you have something I want.”

  “Do I?”

  “Take a walk with me”

  Chase flicked the half-finished cigarette into the road and headed into the alley by the side of the building. Music from inside the bar floated out into the night, but the side door was closed and there wasn’t anyone down here—only cats and crows watching from on high.

  “My place is just down the roa—” he started to say, but Cyanide pushed him up against the wall, knocking the words out of his mouth.

  “You don’t mess around,” he said.

  “No. I’m a busy woman. And I’m taking the offer off the table in three seconds.”

  Any other vampire may have toyed around with Chase, may have strung him along and played with his emotions, his body. But Cyanide wasn’t that kind of vampire. Maybe, if she weren’t in a hurry, she may have found a little enjoyment in exploring his lips, his tongue. This wasn’t going to be like that. This was business.

  Holding him against the wall, Cyanide cupped his face with her hands and turned his chin up to the sky. First, she kissed his jawline, travelling up along the length of it until she reached the area where the jaw and ear meet, then making her way down to the jugular.

  To say her lips were sensitive to the sensation of the blood pumping quickly through the thick, bountiful artery would be an understatement. Every pulse, every beat of his heart resonated within her chest as if it were her own, strong, pounding organ. She did tease him then, gently kissing the jugular at first, then running her tongue along it. He flinched from the coldness of her breath, and that was her cue.

  When she bit into his neck, the air in his lungs fell out with a sigh. His body tensed, his hands closed around her shoulder and waist, but he melted soon after, relaxing into her body as she supped the warm, delicious blood from within his neck. He had been drinking recently, but not much—one drink, maybe two—and she could almost taste the bourbon on his blood as she drew it into her mouth, savoring it with her tongue.

  Chase’s blood warmed her cold body as it slid down her throat and into her belly. As she drank, she became intimately aware with the strength and the rhythm of his heartbeat. At first it had been rapid, like a jackhammer on the street. But now his heart was beating to match the tempo of a waltz. One, two, three, one, two, three. She knew not to take much more than she already had, but his blood was sweet, and rich, and empowering—the truest kind of liquid courage.

  Finally, she pulled away from his neck and lapped the excess blood off of his skin with her tongue until the two puncture wounds sealed, leaving only pink dots barely visible except up close. When she was satisfied that he would be okay, she pressed him up against the wall and tapped his face, rousing him from his sleepy stupor.

  “Hey,” she said, “Wake up, Chase.”

  “Nah, thanks, I’m good here.”

  “It’s time for you to wake up, big guy. Got anyone who can take you home?”

  “I don’t need anyone—I live just up there,” and he pointed in the direction of a small residential block nestled in between the nightclubs and bars. Not an ideal place, but the rent was probably as cheap as the booze in the neighborhood.

  “Alright,” she said, drawing his arm over her shoulder and walking him out of the alley. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

  Cyanide dropped him off at the door to the apartment building, then searched the back pocket of his jeans for his keys. When she found them, she pulled them out, planted them in his hand, and pinched his cheeks with her hand, trying to make eye contact with him.

  “I want you to forget what happened,” she said, “You understand? Forget.”

  “Forget? Why?”

  “Because… that’s what I want. Okay?”

  She hated that she wasn’t good at this particular skill. Suggestion was tough. That whole thing about vampires bending the human mind to their will, it was all exaggeration. She wasn’t sure he was getting the message, not sure the suggestion was working—maybe he was too tired, his mind too weak for the command for him to forget to take root.

  Though, given his current state, he would probably forget all on his own, wouldn’t he?

  “Which one is yours?” she asked.

  “What?” Chase said.

  “Your apartment—which one is yours?”

  “Oh… twelve, I think.”

  “Twelve. Right. Think you can get up there on your own?”

  “I’d definitely get up there if you came with me,” he said, a lazy-eyed grin manifesting on his face.

  Warm, stolen blood rushed to Cyanide’s cheeks. “Boy, you’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”

  “What can I say?”

  “Tell me you’ll forget everything that happened tonight. I’m just a dream.”

  “A good dream.”

  “Fine, a good dream.”

  “A wet dream?”

  Cyanide stood up, pulled the keys out of his hand, and unlocked the apartment building’s front door. She then handed him the keys. “Not tonight, buddy,” she said, helping him up and inside. She shut the door before he could say anything else.

  That had taken longer than she had expected, but the blood rushing through her system right now, the thrill, the high, had been worth it. She shook her head and stepped away from the apartment building, continuing on her path down the street and toward Heaven. But her mind kept pulling her back to Chase, the musk of his cologne, the feel of his skin beneath her lips. There had been part of her that had wanted to feel his warmth against her bare body, but like the werewolves in those B-horror movies, those thoughts gruesomely transformed into feelings of guilt, and she pushed them out of her mind.

  Stopping for a bite had delayed her, but she was stronger now, sharper, and where she
was going, she would need to be ready for anything.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The taste of copper in her mouth kept her mind feeling airy and distant, but this just made the journey from the bar to Heaven seem to pass in an instant. It was as if she had blinked, and then she was there in front of the club surrounded by people desperate to get in.

  This place had a different vibe than Lust. Heaven was a large building too, but where Lust was dark and imposing—a dark castle—Heaven was more of a palace lit with neon lights.

  Searchlights scoured the cloudy sky from the roof of a tall structure, while lights rising up all along the center, sides, and base gave onlookers the impression of wings. At the double front doors, there were so many guards and bouncers you’d think some big shot celebrity was partying inside. And maybe there was.

  Cyanide approached, once again heading straight for the door instead of waiting in line—she’d have been out there ‘till sun-up, judging by the size of the queue. But knowing this was a club owned by a vampire, to be used by vampires, gave her the confidence to go up to the bouncers, find the bloodsucker among them, and talk to him directly.

  There wasn’t just one creature of the night at the door—there were two.

  Vampires weren’t usually easy to spot, not even in a crowd of humans, but these two men—Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum—were as stiff as marble statues, infallibly guarding the front door from anyone who thought to try their luck and sneak in. Both men were wearing black suits. On the lapels were angel-wing pins with the word Heaven embroidered beneath in gold thread. Either looked like a match for Cyanide if it came down to a fight. She would have to play it cool.

  When Tweedle Dee spotted her, he turned his body around to intercept and placed himself between her, the humans, and the door. “Identification,” he said, with all the stoic charm of a bulldog.

  “Identification?” Cyanide asked when she arrived. “You want to see my ID?”

  “I want to see your identification. That’s what I asked.”

  “I don’t have any identification. I didn’t think I needed it.”

  “You come to Heaven, you skip the line, you show me what you are. Otherwise, you don’t get in.”

  “Look, I already said I…” He hadn’t said show me who you are, he had said what. She gently ran her tongue along her upper canines, teasing them to descend just a little bit, then flashed the bouncer an uncertain smile, making sure the humans couldn’t see.

  Without saying a word, he reached for the velvet rope between them and lifted it for her to come through. “Welcome to Heaven,” he said, slipping the rope back into place behind her and opening the club’s front door.

  The push of muted sound was immediate, though probably more intense for her and her supernatural senses than it would have been for a human. She walked through the front door into a room with white marble floors, columns, and walls. Inlaid into the walls and columns were golden etchings and patterns, the centerpiece of which stood above the coat check area—a beautiful pair of golden wings.

  Cyanide approached the main desk, which stood before a set of doors barring the way into the club itself. The coat check girl and the man next to her eyed Cyanide as she approached, and she thanked whatever gods existed she’d had the mind to cover up her tattoos with a lace shrug. The dress she was wearing left much of her skin exposed, and had her tattoos been on display, well, that would have been counterproductive to her goal of not being recognized.

  “Hi,” the girl said, “Is this your first time in Heaven?”

  “Yeah, it is. How did you know?”

  “I can usually tell. The club is right through those doors, but I have to tell you what the rules are before you walk through.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Right, well, there are only two. Feeding is permissible, but only on the dance floor or within the VIP lounge. And while you’re in Heaven, hostile acts against other vampires or humans are strictly prohibited.”

  “Seems simple enough. I wasn’t planning on starting a fight.”

  The coat check girl smiled brightly. “If you’d like,” she said, “You can make your way right up to our VIP lounge.”

  “VIP?” Cyanide asked.

  “Oh yes, you’re one of our distinguished guests. Just identify yourself as you did at the door, and enjoy your time in Heaven.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Cyanide stepped away from the desk and noticed the girl’s eyes were on her as she walked away. Did this girl know Cyanide didn’t belong in this club? Were they on to her already? Waiting to find out wasn’t an option. Without hesitating, she continued through the hall and then walked up to the double doors at the end where another man in a suit stood sentry. He pushed the door open for her as she approached, and now the full force of thumping bass enveloped her.

  The press of the crowd had almost reached the door, and after only taking three steps into the club, she found herself in the thick of it. Bodies bounced in time with the beat while lasers streaked across the sky, creating near-holographic impressions in the smoky air, which was thick with the scent of sweat, cologne, and perfume. Looking up and around, she saw the club was at least three floors tall. Like a coliseum, the dance floor was a pit surrounded by banisters from which people on any floor could watch and chat without being part of the action.

  Cyanide pushed her way back out of the swell of the crowd and moved in the direction of the VIP lounge, marked clearly next to a set of ascending stairs. Following them up to the top floor, she received more attention from men—and some women—passing by her than she’d had in a long time.

  When she reached another velvet rope protected by what looked like a clone of the men she had seen downstairs, Cyanide approached and, without being asked, bared her fangs in a subtle way. He undid the rope, letting her pass with a polite nod. “Enjoy your time in Heaven,” he said, echoing words she had heard before. At the end of a stub of a corridor was a door marked VIP, and it opened for her automatically as she approached.

  Stepping inside, the atmosphere was entirely different than what it was outside. The same music she had heard playing downstairs was being played up here, but through speakers embedded into the walls. The lights were dim, the carpets were blood red, and the walls were an even darker red. Circular tables lit by a single candle were scattered around the lounge, each playing host to conversations between two or three people. Quiet booths were set into the walls, most of them occupied by people in snazzy outfits sipping drinks from long necked glasses and whispering sweet nothings into their partners’ ears.

  Careful not to drift too close to anyone, she made her way toward the bar on the other side of the lounge, all the while keeping her eyes peeled for the bald man she had seen in the video. If he was here, she would find him sooner or later. But first she had to pretend like she fit in. The bar was the best place to start.

  The barman, a young, attractive guy wearing a suit which was probably worth more than her yearly rent, spotted her as she arrived and quickly moved toward her—one of the privileges of being an attractive woman wearing an almost too-revealing dress. “Good evening,” he said, “And what may I get for the lady?”

  “What would you recommend?”

  “That depends entirely on your… taste. We cater to everyone here.”

  “Everyone?”

  The barman produced a menu from underneath the bar and handed it to her. It was a simple thing, black card stock with gold lettering, listing the names of various cocktails and the price attached to each. Dark Sunrise, $200. Crimson Kiss, $250. Eternal Embrace, $200. Jesus. Lionel had made her look like royalty, but her bank account hadn’t received any such makeover.

  “I don’t think—” she started to say, but a delicate feminine voice cut in.

  “I’m buying. Whatever you’d like, it’s on me.” A crescent of a smile appeared on her face, highlighting the incisiveness of her narrow, oriental eyes. They were like razor blades, sharp and precise, and in this dim ligh
t looked to be almost entirely black.

  Cyanide turned her head and smiled. “Thanks,” she said, “But that’s okay.”

  “I insist,” she said, gesturing toward the menu with one delicate hand.

  Cyanide stared at the stranger before returning her eyes to the menu, and then looked up at the barman. “I’ll take a Crimson Kiss.”

  “Make that two,” the stranger put in.

  “Very well,” the barman said, and he removed the menu from her hand before disappearing into a back room.

  “Good choice,” the woman said, “It’s what I drink when I come here.”

  “You… come here often?” she asked.

  “Often enough.”

  Cyanide examined the woman’s features, then cocked an eyebrow. “Do I… know you?”

  “I don’t think so. That’s why I came over here. If you come to these places often enough, you start seeing the same faces all over again. But you’re new. That’s interesting.”

  “So, that’s why you’re spending $250 on a drink? Because I’m new?”

  “Please, don’t think anything of it. Only a gift, something to get us talking.”

  “Right…” Cyanide couldn’t place this familiar stranger, though not for lack of trying. She knew she’d have remembered meeting someone who looked like her. Because, despite her soft voice, everything else about her—her long, poker-straight black hair with the tight fringe and beautiful, floral kanzashi woven into it, her black couture gown and matching lace gloves—weren’t things she was used to seeing on a woman in her part of the city. She looked, in many ways, like a Japanese doll who’d been perfectly preserved in vampirism.

  Yeah, she’d have remembered meeting her.

  “You’re trying to figure me out,” the woman said, noticing the pause in the conversation. “Let me help you—my name is Angel. What’s yours?”