The Immortal Warriors Boxed Set: Books 1-11

by H. T. Night

  “Did we forget that we were planning on running this morning?” Maya asked.

  “We?” I asked. “I didn’t realize this was a couple’s weekend regimen.”

  “We, as in you. You, as in get your ass up and start jogging because I don’t want to hear you complain all day that you should have run.”

  “Will you at least make a man his breakfast?” I said in my cocky, but you-know-I’m-kidding voice.

  “At 5:30 in the morning? Don’t think so, Lance Armstrong. Wake me up at 9:00, and you can make me breakfast.”

  “Really?” I asked. “I don’t get anything extra for all that sweet love I gave last night?”

  “Didn’t realize that you were working so hard so you would get a steak and eggs breakfast in the morning.”

  “I was working hard for you,” I said. “All a man can ask for is for his girlfriend to return the favor.”

  “Wow, you are seriously working it.”

  I smiled at Maya so she knew I was okay with her going back to sleep. I stood up and put on my plastics. Plastics are what MMA fighters, boxers, wrestlers, or anyone else who needs to cut weight wears underneath their sweats when working out. It makes it so one’s sweat glands becomes water works. I have cut as much as 12 pounds in one run. I wasn’t planning and cutting any weight today, however… although, I needed to lose ten pounds at some point before my next match.

  I continued to put on my clothes and Maya said, “You want to know who is already jogging at this moment?” Maya said.

  “Your little brother,” I answered, half disgusted.

  “That’s right. He runs twenty miles a week. So, if that is what your competition is doing, then you had better be working just as hard.”

  “Competition? Look, don’t get me wrong, your brother is a tough son of a bitch. But he isn’t—or ever will be—my competition.”

  “I’ll let him know that,” Maya said, smiling at me.

  “Is that supposed to make me scared? I know you think Josiah can kick my ass. But, let’s get this straight. One, we’ll never fight each other because that kid will be a heavyweight by the time he goes pro with the way he eats. Secondly, we spar a lot. He’s a great boxer, but once I get him on the mat, I can toy with him.”

  “Look at you.” Maya looked at me with a spark in her eye. “All it took was bringing up my 17-year-old brother and now I have your motor roaring.”

  “Very funny. You’re going to make me hate the kid if you keep saying things like that.”

  “How can anyone hate Josiah? He is so cute.”

  “Just remember how cute he looked in his little yellow ‘Man at Work’ Speedo.”

  “I was doing so good at getting that image out of my head.”

  “Hey, if you’re not going to play fair, neither am I,” I laughed. I put on the rest of my gear, kissed Maya on her lips, and took off out of my front door.

  Chapter Seven

  When I returned from running, my fantastic girlfriend had made me an egg-white omelet.

  She was wonderful. She had woken up and gone to the all-night market to buy egg whites, vegetables, and fruit while I ran the streets of Anaheim Hills. She put together a nice, healthy spread for me as I walked into my apartment. She was wearing a cute little apron, and went all out in serving me. I wasn’t one to ever assume a woman should do this for me, but when it happened, it is quite wonderful.

  I thanked her with a shoulder massage and some TLC. Maya and I were completely romantic when it came to the affection we gave one another. It was one of the things that kept us grounded and in love. Just her touch told me how much she loved me. I tried to make her feel the same way in how I took my time in caressing her.

  “You’re an amazing woman,” I said.

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “I wouldn’t class me as an amazing woman,” I said. “Although I do have long eyelashes that look hot when I go as a girl for Halloween.”

  “I’m going to have to put your eyelashes to the test later. I need to see how pretty my man can get.”

  We kissed and hugged and rested next to one another on our bed. Maya and I made love all the time, but today was something more. Today, I think we both just wanted to experience each other as people. Sex has a time and place. I knew I had found what I had always been seeking in a woman when just the thought of spending time with her excited me.

  We spent the whole day together, lying around and watching TV. That night, Maya and I went to the movie theater and saw a gangster movie. The movie had me thinking about my own life and the kind of person I’d become. In the movie, the main character was brought into the gangster life unwillingly. He needed to either embrace it or fight it off. The character never quite embraced it, and it didn’t turn out well for him.

  When the movie ended, I just sat in my seat, staring at the credits. This flick was a metaphor for my own survival. I needed to embrace my new world. And the only way that would happen was if I met others like me and befriended them. Otherwise, I’d be a lone wolf. And lone wolves get devoured by lions. It was simple. I needed to find my pack.

  “What are you thinking about?” Maya asked.

  I smiled and stood up. “I was just thinking about how sexy you are,” I said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Your sexiness is on my mind 24 hours a day. I just might need to wean myself off of it a tad.”

  “I hope not,” Maya laughed. “Because I’m addicted to you.”

  I leaned down and gave my girlfriend a giant kiss and we headed out of the theater.

  After the movie, Maya and I went home and cuddled, watching a brand-new show called Chelsea Lately. At some point in the thirty-minute show, Maya dozed off.

  I decided to get up and get something to drink. I went out of the room so I wouldn’t disturb her. I had a laptop on the kitchen table. I grabbed a light beer from the fridge and decided to have a seat at the kitchen table and get on the internet. I had never done any type of werewolf research before and wasn’t quite sure where to begin. But, I thought it was time for me to learn a little more about my own kind. I knew the folklore that was on Wikipedia was mostly myth, but I was sure that some of it was true. I scoped out the Wikipedia page and I learned that is believed that some humans can drink the water that is in the footprints of a wolf and turn into a werewolf. Reality and fiction are usually never far off, but even that seemed preposterous.

  I decided to type information about werewolves into Google to seek them out in the real world. I saw a lot of listings for wolf bars. I was pretty sure that is a subculture in the gay community. But, there was a bar that had a weird statement at the end of their listing. It read ‘Carnivores welcome!’

  I stared at the way they spelled Carnivores. They separated it at the word ‘Carni’ and ‘vores.’ I thought that was a clue for someone like me. It was worth a shot to go check it out. If it turned out to be a gay bar, I’d just get my groove on to some “Dancing Queen” and “YMCA.” Who knew, I might even throw off my shirt and put on a show for the boys.

  I continued to look for any other bars that might have clues in the listing. I saw a couple more bars and restaurants in Los Angeles that ended their advertisement with the same quote: ‘Carnivores welcome.’ It must have been some kind of hidden language. It appeared as if they were promoting a steakhouse or some kind of meat extravaganza with the statement. I had a strong feeling that it was letting werewolves know that those establishments were werewolf-friendly. There was only one way to find out. I had to go check out one of these listings. The way I figured, what better time than the present to seek out my own kind?

  I was worried about leaving Maya alone. I had bought extra locks for the windows and doors, but I still didn’t feel comfortable sneaking off. Against my better judgment, I grabbed my keys in a way that ensured they wouldn’t clink against each other. I already wore a pair of jeans with a white T-shirt. I grabbed my shoes that I had left by the door and decided to sneak out, putting them on outside th
e door. I made sure Maya was safely locked in. I checked every window around the apartment and they were all secured. No one was getting in. Plus, I didn’t have many enemies these days. I had kept my nose clean for a while.

  I jumped in my Mustang and took off toward Los Angeles. It was time to see if my hunch was right. The “Carnivore-friendly” bar was at the edge of West Hollywood and Los Angeles on Santa Monica Boulevard. It took me about 50 minutes to get there at 12:30 in the morning.

  The bar’s name was ‘The Bottom!’ I guess it could have been a gay bar, but there was no hint of that from the parking lot. The bar didn’t have a rainbow flag draped over the outside to let gay guys know the establishment was gay-friendly. This place was either an underground gay bar, or it was an underground werewolf bar. I was obviously hoping for the latter. My hunch was slightly more validated with the sea of Harleys parked out front.

  The bar was in a rundown shopping center that had typical little businesses in this part of town. There was a tanning place, a Thai massage joint, and a liquor store where I’m sure they’d sell just about anything to its customers at the right price.

  I had to park on a side street because the parking lot was full. I locked my car and grabbed my leather jacket from my back seat, and I walked to the sidewalk that led to the parking lot. I made my way to the front entrance that had a very large, burly man at the front sitting on a stool. His teeth were yellow and he smelled of scotch. It was obvious that this guy had been throwing them back something reckless since earlier in the day.

  I walked up to the man and flashed him my I.D. He looked down at me and gave me the full head-to-toe once-over. “You cool?” he asked.

  Cool? That could mean a thousand different things. But I knew the best answer was, “Yes, I’m cool.”

  He stared at me as if he was trying to read my soul. I was pretty sure a dope like him didn’t have any supernatural powers, but these days, you never know. Finally, he said, “All right, come in.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not sure what to say to a guy who didn’t seem too confident about letting me into his establishment.

  As I passed him, he threw one out one more golden nugget: “Don’t hit on the bartender. That’s my girl.”

  “I don’t shit where I eat,” I said. “So, you have nothing to worry about, Tiny.” I made my way past the doorman. I looked at the bartender and she was a big girl. Not tall, but a really big woman. Pretty face, but she had me in pounds. She had most men in this joint in pounds. Even if I didn’t have a girlfriend, the doorman didn’t have anything to worry about. My beer goggles usually stopped at a red light if a woman could fight in a higher weight class than me.

  There seemed to be a lot of men in the bar. Again, I wondered if it was a gay bar. It did have a few scantily-dressed women throughout the place—they seemed to be the focus of most men in the bar.

  I just think that this bar happened to be a sausage fest. Sausage-fest bars are great. Men can be men. That’s why sports bars work. This wasn’t a sports bar, however. There were no sports on the tube. As a matter of fact, there were three TVs. Only one of them was turned on and an animal channel was showing a documentary show about wolves. Second clue, I thought.

  I found an empty bar stool at the main bar and sat in it. The bartender came over to me. She was a burly woman whose physique matched Mr. Burly Doorman’s. She struck me as a no-nonsense type of gal. “What are you drinking?” she asked in a very tough, but oddly feminine way.

  “I’ll have a shot of tequila with a Coors Light chaser.”

  The bartender stared at me as if I was fucking with her. When she realized I was dead serious, she smiled and slowly turned her head and said, “You got it. Tequila with a Coors Light chaser. What kind of tequila?”

  “Patrón,” I said.

  “Okay, now you’re getting there,” she said, teasing me.

  “What? A Coors Light chaser isn’t manly?” I asked.

  “No light beer is manly,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, this is one of those kind of places,” I said, joking back.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, far too loudly for my taste.

  Now others were listening in. I knew that I needed to be cool or trouble might start. “I just meant that this is a man’s man bar.”

  “No twinkle-toes, this isn’t a man’s man bar. That bar is down the street, and I’m sure they have a real fruity drink you could chase your tequila with.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was busting my chops because I was obviously new to the bar, or if I had completely pissed her off. I couldn’t tell if she had a dark sense of humor.

  I decided there was only one way to find out. “I’m not into that scene, but I’m sure if you whipped out your dick, they’d let you in for free,” I said, giving it right back to her.

  “My dick?” She stared at me straight-faced and held it for two seconds and then just busted up laughing. “I like this kid,” she said.

  I let out a comfortable sigh and sat on the stool. The bartender gave me a double shot of tequila and sure enough, brought over my Coors Light chaser. I went to pay her but she said, “It’s on the house.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “Wasn’t my call,” the bartender said.

  “Whose call was it?” I asked.

  “My boss.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “The gentleman in the back by the pool table.”

  I turned around and saw a man in his early 40s who looked as fit as a guy his age could look. He had dark hair and pale skin. He had a scruffy face, and reminded me a little like I would be twenty years from now. He looked like a guy who could take care of himself if he had to. The man raised his shot glass to me. I raised mine to his, and downed my double tequila shot without the salt-lime ritual. I just swallowed it straight, and then with a sip of my Coors Light chaser.

  I sat back in my swivel chair that was pretty uncomfortable. I swear, it makes no sense for bars to have bar stools. They cut off circulation and make it so your lower half falls asleep.

  “Tommy,” a female voice said from behind me. I turned around, expecting to see a girl I’d probably had a one-night stand with and never called back to throw a drink in my face, but I didn’t recognize her. She smiled at me suggestively and red flags went up in my head.

  “Look, doll. I don’t have a ring, but I’m taken,” I said, as I looked over my shoulder. I had a glimpse of this gorgeous creature and my tongue really fell out of my mouth. She was a Latin beauty for sure. She was built like a black show horse in top shape. She was built to last. She was Ford tough. ‘Maya, Maya, Maya,’ I kept chanting in my head like a protective mantra against sleek Latina chicks who gave me the bedroom eyes, smelled delicious, and tossed their glossy heads of blue-black hair, as thick as horses’ manes.

  “Mr. Fausto would like to talk with you. He is a fan.”

  “A fan? A fan of what?” I asked.

  “You are a fighter, correct?”

  “I am. Has he seen me fight?” I was shocked. No one at this point knew who I was. I had only had a couple professional fights.

  “Not only has he seen you fight, he thinks you have a lot of talent and would like to meet you, if you’re not too busy.”

  Busy? I was the furthest thing from being busy. “Sure, I’ll join him!” I stood up and made my way to the back where two pool tables were set up. There was a long conference-type table against the wall. There were six men and three ladies seated at the table. It was a scruffy, but good-looking bunch. Not the ladies… the men were scruffy. The ladies were, well, they were showy arm candy, for the most part.

  I’m not normally shy, but in this situation, I couldn’t help but feel a tad on the spot. I walked up to the alpha male, Mr. Fausto, and said, “Thanks for the drink or should I say, drinks plural?”

  “No problem. It’s not every day we get a pro athlete walk through our doors. Do you have a picture that you can autograph and we co
uld hang it behind the bar?”

  “I don’t exactly carry eight by tens around… You would really do that? Hang my face behind the bar?” I laughed.

  “You’re Tommy Jensen, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. But you can call me Kyro.”

  “Kyro?”

  Mr. Fausto smiled and said, “Sure enough. Okay, Kyro, you were 14-0 as an amateur and now you’re 2-0 as a pro.”

  “Wow, you know my stats. Not even my grandma knows my stats.”

  “I know you have knocked out everyone you faced. I love mixed martial arts. It’s man versus man! Nothing more Roman Gladiator than that.” Mr. Fausto smiled at me. “I better calm down. People might get the wrong idea, and question if I am still into the ladies.” He had a woman on both arms, so I didn’t see that happening. “I love the sport. It’s almost an obsession of mine. When is your next fight?”

  “I actually had a setback, but I’m aiming for eight weeks from now. Mainly, because I need the cash.”

  “Cash is nice. It’s the best motivator I have found. People say it’s about the love of the game. I say it is about the love. The love of the game of cold, hard cash.” Those at the table all laughed at Mr. Fausto’s statement. “Have a seat and join us. My name is Marcos. Marcos Fausto.”

  “I don’t want to impose, Mr. Fausto,” I said.

  “Please call me Marcos, and I promise you that you are not imposing.”

  “Okay, then. Thank you.”

  Marcos pulled out a chair that was right next to him. I walked around the table and sat down. Marcos looked up at a waitress who had hurried over to take my order. “Get him another double shot of tequila, but give him some of the imported beer as a chaser, none of that light stuff.”

  He tilted his chin at me. “What kind of imported beer do you like, when you aren’t training?”

  “Do you have Carlsberg Elephant beer?” I said readily.

  “Interesting pairing with the Patrón. That Danish beer’ll pack quite a wallop, chasing tequila.”