by Roh Morgon
But I think the locket will do the trick.
I found it in one of San Francisco’s many shops catering to hippies, goths, and anyone else with an unconventional lifestyle. About three-quarters of an inch in size on a long silver chain, the locket back is solid silver, with a tiny hinge on one side. The open filigree pattern on the front is vaguely Celtic, circling a small red garnet in the center. It’s not something I’d normally wear, but if it works like I hope it does, it just might be a lifesaver.
I open it up and insert a tiny piece of the black felt that came with it, then pick up the bottle of essential oil and unscrew the top. My head jerks back as I wave the bottle beneath my nose and the scent of cloves fills my nostrils. I sneeze once, nearly spilling the pungent oil. But a sneeze isn’t nearly as bad as the burning from the eucalyptus and camphor oils I’d tested in the store, nor the instant hunger and fang-drop from the patchouli and musk.
And it doesn’t reek nearly as bad as the proverbial garlic.
Releasing an amber drop onto the felt from the tiny lid-mounted eyedropper, I load my secret weapon in my war on the fangs, screw the lid back on the bottle, and snap the locket closed. With one last look at my personal silver bullet dangling from its chain, I slip the necklace over my head. The locket settles neatly between my breasts, safely out of the way until I need it. I raise it to my nose for a final test and smile at my involuntary recoil.
It’s Halloween night. The streets and clubs are filled with witches and zombies and vampires, but no Chosen. If there’s any night they’d prowl among the humans, this would be it.
I’ve spent hours drifting from club to club, searching for the real monsters beneath the elaborate costumes. A silver-sequined mask is my only concession to the holiday, though my hunting blacks and black leather jacket seem to blend in well enough.
Disgusted with my futile quest, I decide to check out the Cat Club for one last look before heading out of the city to hunt.
The place is packed. The pungent clove oil I’d dabbed on my face and throat, reinforced by that in my locket, is doing its job, and though I’m wading through living bodies pulsing with human blood, I’m able to keep my reactions to it at bay.
But I’m having a little more trouble with the mass of flesh pressing against me. Fortunately the music is loud enough to cover the near-constant growl rumbling deep in my chest. My aversion to being touched by humans has increased since I made the Change, and it’s taking everything I have not to clear a space around me with fangs and claws.
I spot a gap next to the wall and work my way through the crowd to lay claim to it. A couple to my right dressed as a gothic Raggedy Ann and Andy ease back to give me a little more room and I settle in against the crudely mortared brick.
A black-caped figure to my left turns and regards me with eyes as dark as night. He flashes me a leering grin, his yellowish fangs in sharp contrast to the white of his teeth.
My breath catches, then slowly escapes.
They’re fake. His fangs are fake. Plastic.
I’m tempted to show him mine.
Rolling my eyes, I turn away and stare out at the masquerade madness convulsing through the club.
The feel of the air surrounding us abruptly changes. I look toward the door and stop breathing all together.
A stir ripples through the masses as four costumed figures enter, drawing every gaze in the club. Their elegant seventeenth-century garments appear to be the real thing, with details that only my eyes are likely to pick out in the dim light. Two stately females, blonde and auburn curls tumbling to their shoulders beneath wide-brimmed hats, glide into the room, their brocaded gold and ruby gowns sweeping the floor. Two males follow, sporting doublets and matching breeches in indigo and ivory. Their pale faces are bordered with shoulder-length hair, pointed goatees, and wide mustaches, no doubt the fashion of that time.
But it’s not the costumes that have stolen my breath.
The air shimmers around each of them in transparent swirls of amber and violet, shot with fine threads of various other colors. I’ve felt Chosen auras before, but this is the first I’ve seen them. I recognize traces of Nicolas in their feel—these Chosen are of his lineage. His lineage. It does not belong to that traitorous bitch, Éva, no matter what she thinks.
I push off from the wall and move toward my quarry.
As one, their haughty gazes shift in my direction and appraise me from across the room. Several lips curl, and the shorter male smiles, and with no further expression, they turn about-face and stroll out of the club.
Elbowing my way through the crowd, I reach the door and shove it open. As I step outside, I run into a broad, black T-shirted chest.
“Excuse me.” I start to push past him, but he steps in front of me again.
I look up into golden eyes perched above a hawklike nose and wide cheekbones. Full lips part and tug to one side, allowing me a glimpse of the fang behind them. Crimson flashes in his pupils and I ease back, hands up in surrender.
“Hey, I don’t want any trouble.” I yank off my mask and let it fall to the sidewalk.
The costumed Chosen behind him slip into a waiting limousine.
But they’re no longer necessary—not with this one standing barely three feet away.
I just hope he doesn’t intend to kill me.
He’s studying me, his arms now folded across his chest. Thick wrists each bear a wide silver cuff, Native American in design. His skin is an odd color, reddish-brown with a dusky undertone, and his black hair is pulled back into a braid. He’s tall, about six-five, a little taller than Nicolas. But much broader, more muscular.
An aura dances around his body in shades of deep forest green. It feels strange.
He’s not of Nicolas’s lineage.
I move out of the doorway and notice a pair of Harleys parked at the curb. One of them holds a beefy, leather-jacketed biker with wild, curly red hair and a matching beard. He grins. His fangs aren’t plastic, either. A bright russet aura hovers about him like a glove, bearing no hint of Nicolas.
A chocolate-skinned waif pokes her head out from behind his back, hazel eyes shining above a wide smile, then she scrambles down off the bike. Clad in brown chaps and a dark green leather jacket, she saunters toward us, cleaning her nails with a small dagger. She’s no more than four-foot-five, maybe four-six, a petite pixie with a mop of kinky hair the same chocolate color as her skin. Her energy, absent any trace of Nicolas, glimmers a deep purple.
A child? The Chosen would bring someone so young into this life?
Her jacket swings open to reveal a pair of perky breasts beneath a pale green tank top, startling me as I realize this is no child.
My gaze returns to the silent Chosen in front of me. Something about his scent tugs at me, something familiar, but I can’t place it. His golden brown eyes bore into mine and red flashes within their depths again, accompanied by a low growl and a masculine desire I can taste as though his blood runs in my veins.
Alarmed, I take another step back.
“So, Taz, has she said anything yet, or is she as tight-lipped as you?” The tiny Chosen’s birdlike voice carries a hint of French, or Spanish, or both. She drags the tip of her blade across his massive, denim-covered thigh as she walks past him, and I’m struck again by how big this red-skinned Chosen is.
I tear my gaze from him and look down at the childlike female now standing before me.
Opting for my current alias, I offer a half bow and introduce myself.
“My name is Sonya.”
“Chia. And this here’s Taz. That’s Redd.” She waves the dagger toward the obvious bearer of that name.
“So, Sonya. What’re you doing here?” Chia pricks her fingertip with the dagger. A drop of blood wells and she sticks her finger in her mouth and sucks on it as her green-flecked hazel eyes scrutinize me.
Against my will, I glance back up at Taz. He takes a deep breath and I can’t help but notice the size of his biceps. He could crush me with little e
ffort.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“I can see that.” Her sarcasm breaks the spell and I look back down at her. “But I’m pretty sure this big Indian’s out of your league. You’re a little too prissy for him. He likes it rough, don’t ya, Taz?”
“Shut up, Chi,” he growls, glaring at me. “Who you looking for?”
The question, though logical, catches me off guard. I’d expected to deal with Chosen of Nicolas and Alina’s lineage. I’m not sure what to reveal to these “foreign” Chosen.
“The Chosen who got in the limo—who were they?” I ask, avoiding his question. My chances of getting to Alina might be better through them.
Taz’s large frame suddenly looms over me, reeking with the promise of violence.
“Who are you looking for?” he repeats, his menacing tone underscored by red-lit eyes.
Wrong approach, asshole.
“It’s none of your business.” I glare up at him through a scarlet veil. “We’re done here.”
I turn to leave and nearly trip over Chia. Her blazing eyes and bared fangs transform the pixie into a diminutive demon from hell. She hisses and crouches as though to spring, nails and dagger ready.
The burly red-haired Chosen materializes behind Chia.
“Come now, lass. Sonya, is it? You surely don’t want to piss her off.” A faint Scottish brogue accents his words as he gestures down at her with his thumb. “She might be just a wee Creole, but she can fight like the Devil himself. I’ll not go against her.”
Outweighed and outnumbered, I clench my fists and suppress a snarl.
“I’m looking for… Alina Dăneşti.”
The Scot lets out a booming laugh. Chia relaxes her aggressive posture, but only a little.
“Are ye now? And what business might ye have with her?” He hooks his thumbs into his jeans’ pockets and tips his head. His eyes are russet brown, and his freckled skin, though pale, still bears a faint ruddy hue. A broad nose rests above his thick red mustache and beard.
“It’s personal.” I smile at him, hoping he’s the leader of this group.
Taz, standing behind me, snorts. Chia growls and spits on the sidewalk.
The ringing of a cell phone breaks our little standoff. Redd pulls it out of his jacket pocket.
“Yeah?” He pauses, listening. “Yeah, it’s under control. We’ll wait here.” He shoves the phone back in his pocket and looks up past me. “We gotta roll.”
“You go on. I’ll take her back to the house.” Taz grabs my arm.
My other one flashes out with nails extended. I growl and spin out of his grasp, leaving him with four bleeding lines across his cheek. The wounds seal up immediately.
Ignoring the snarls behind me, I stare into those golden eyes. To his credit, he makes no move to touch either his cheek, or me.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He grunts.
“Suit yourself.” Taz turns and saunters toward the bikes. A long ebony braid swings against his broad back.
I fold my arms and glance at Redd as he passes. Chia skips behind him, then turns and walks backward, grinning at me as she motions with the dagger across her throat.
Taz pulls on a half-shell helmet and a pair of sunglasses, and straddles the sleek black chopper, kicking it to life with one stroke. Its thundering sound echoes off the buildings, reminding me of Nicolas’ Cobra. Redd mounts his bike, its twin tanks and fenders gleaming a burnt orange in the moonlight. Chia hands him a half-helmet and puts on her own, then climbs up and vanishes behind his bulk. The big Scot steps down on the kickstarter and his Harley adds its roar to the first one.
A limo slowly cruises by. It looks like the same one the costumed Chosen disappeared into only a moment ago. The window lowers briefly and I catch a glimpse of blonde curls framing a delicate pale face. Redd, sporting dark glasses along with his helmet, salutes the car, turns on his headlight, and shifts the bike into gear. Chia shoots me the middle finger as they take off after the limo.
I look at Taz sitting on his Harley, arms crossed, waiting.
No real choice here. I’ve been searching too long for any sign of The Chosen to pass this up.
Swallowing my pride, I walk over to the rumbling machine.
“I’ll follow you in my car.”
Taz pulls off his glasses and gives me a hard stare.
“Not gonna work that way. Get on.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the backless seat behind him.
“What if I’d rather not?”
His harsh laugh indicates I probably don’t want to find out.
“Thought you wanted to find Alina.”
That I do.
With a deep breath, I nod and climb on behind him.
CHAPTER 39
Taz jerks the bike into gear and I’m forced to grab onto him to keep from falling off. My body lurches with every shift as we make our way through the steep city streets. Racing up the freeway on-ramp, the Harley’s throaty sound is the only thing I can hear over the rushing wind.
I try not to lean too close to his back, but every time he speeds up to cut through the traffic, I have to tighten my grip on his waist or risk becoming pavement splatter. Besides being scared shitless, pressing against so much male has me more off-balance than his accelerations, and I curse my rebellious body as it yearns for more.
The lights of San Francisco sparkle in the dark water below as we cross the Golden Gate Bridge north out of the city on the 101. Not knowing where we’re headed has me a bit unsettled. But it seemed as though Taz and his friends work with who I assume to be Alina’s Chosen, and I can only hope my decision to go with the big Indian wasn’t a fatal one.
We haven’t been traveling long when Taz takes the off-ramp for Highway 1 and Mill Valley. Streetlights flash by as we rumble through the town, and after we make several turns, we’re abandoned to the Harley headlight and occasional bright spots from the porches and windows of the houses strung along the road.
The smell of oak woodlands fills my nostrils and some of the tension drains away, only to be replaced by the twist of hunger.
Wonder how easy it’ll be to slip away for a little hunting expedition.
The motorcycle slows, then veers onto a darkened lane. We pass several houses before turning down a tree-lined driveway. An older one-story with a covered porch and peeling white paint flickers in and out of the Harley’s bouncing light, and as we approach, the garage door opens. I chuckle at the rusted hulks of several old cars peeking out between dead weeds in the front and side yards.
Not exactly what I expected for a Chosen country manor.
Taz rolls to a stop inside the garage and kills the engine. I climb off and glance around, noting several motorcycles in various stages of assembly, the walls and shelves lined with tool boxes, and even the obligatory biker babe posters and calendars stuck on nails to the unfinished drywall.
Just like any biker garage.
Leaning the Harley onto its kickstand, Taz swings his leg over the seat, takes off his helmet, and hangs it from the handlebar. He drops his sunglasses into the helmet and presses a button near the grip. The garage door creaks to a close.
With a sidelong look, he gestures toward a grease-smudged door bearing a sign in bold letters that state, NOT AN EXIT. Smoothing back my wind-whipped hair, I walk past him.
“Nice tits,” he says, his voice low.
I whirl and glare at him.
“You don’t need to be looking at them.”
Fleeting surprise lights up his face, then his eyes narrow, followed by a one-sided smile.
“Didn’t have to. Felt them against my back the whole way here. And now that you mention it, they do look as nice as they feel.”
“Screw you.” I turn back toward the door.
He chuckles.
“Anytime.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I reach for the doorknob, only to discover it’s locked. Crossing my arms, I wait while Taz produces a key and ope
ns the door. My blood is boiling and thoughts of ripping that smug look from his face flit through my mind.
“After you,” he says, smirking.
The kitchen we walk into hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time. A roasting pan filled with black oil and small motor parts sits on the greasy stove, and it’s hard to tell what color the ancient linoleum floor used to be. Tools and nuts and bolts litter the dusty counters. But the grime-encrusted sink is empty, and there’s not a dirty dish or beer can in sight.
Definitely a Chosen kitchen, in spite of the mess.
“Remind me to get the name of your housekeeper,” I mutter.
Taz grunts and ushers me on ahead past the dining area and into the living room, which isn’t in any better shape than the kitchen.
A parts-strewn coffee table takes up the center of the room. Several large floor pillows occupy a corner and a big-screen TV uses most of one wall. Two long couches and an upholstered chair, all covered by an assortment of dirty blankets, line the remaining walls. The corner of one blanket on the couch below the window has slipped down, exposing the fabric beneath.
Bloodstained fabric.
An image surges into my mind, an image of Taz entwined about a woman on the couch, his fangs buried in her neck. Electricity ripples across my skin and into my upper jaw. Shocked, I look away, gums aching. I don’t know if my reaction is from the idea of feeding on a human, or the unexpected vision of him moving against her, but neither is acceptable.
I shake my head to clear it and survey the rest of the room. There’s nothing else to indicate that the occupants of this house might be something other than low-class human trash.
These Chosen are certainly nothing like Nicolas and his Elders. Guess you can’t escape your roots, no matter what you feed on.
“You still sleep?” His gruff voice startles me and I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to find him leaning against the small dining room table, its surface behind him covered with repair manuals, biker magazines, and stacks of mail.
“Yeah.”
“You can crash on one of the couches. No one will bother you.”