Hector’s strength was incredible. His fingers felt like steel bands that didn’t even twitch when she stabbed him repeatedly with the corkscrew. Even when she dug in as far as she could and twisted, Hector’s only response was a labored snarl. Near the stairs there was a slight rush of movement but no voices calling for help. No grunts, no punches being thrown, and no athletic young men asserting themselves against the invaders. No help for Tara.
Paige’s next blow landed on the side of Hector’s neck in the middle of one of the thick tribal tattoos. This time there was no mistaking it. The tattoo wriggled away when the corkscrew punctured the skin. He responded by tightening his grip even further and pulling her leg out from under her body. She hopped in an attempt to remain upright, but that wasn’t enough to keep her from hitting the wall on her side.
“Hide these two somewhere,” the woman said before both of the jocks’ limp bodies landed on the bar.
“What are you doing?” Tara asked in a voice that was so weak it could hardly be heard over the music filtering down through the floor. Wes threw her over the bar and then jumped it himself, barely scraping his shoes against the warped countertop before landing in a crouch between Paige and Tara.
Evan walked around, pulling the two unconscious jocks behind him.
Since Paige couldn’t free herself from Hector’s grip, she shifted her attention to Wes. He looked at her and shook his head before sternly whispering, “Don’t.”
Her scream came like an explosion from her lungs and would have easily torn through the Snoop Dogg chart-topper everyone was singing on the second floor if Wes hadn’t cut it off by pounding his fist into her face. No matter how much the punch hurt, Paige wasn’t about to submit.
She had been in her share of confrontations. Although she would never have admitted as much, most of the physical ones had been classic girl fights. Lots of flailing arms and wild slaps without a lot of damage being done. She’d been in a schoolyard scuffle with a boy, but she could tell he was holding back on account of her smoother features and pink clothes. When Wes leaned down and hit her again, he didn’t hold back. He didn’t glare at her with an abuser’s contempt or a rapist’s ferocity. He simply smashed her face because that’s what he needed to do. It was harsh. It was clinical. It was painful.
Apart from the heavy thump of knuckles against her head, Paige heard a crunch that filled her ears and sent a jolt of pain through her entire upper body. Because she didn’t have the good sense to crumple, he hit her once more. Instead of a crunch, Paige heard the snap of cartilage in her nose giving way. Blood flowed down her face and her next breath set off a firestorm of pain that filled every bit of real estate in her skull.
The bodies of the jocks hit the floor behind it like sacks that had been dropped from the roof. Paige tried to get out from under them but was unable to move quickly enough due to the grip that was still around her ankle. It tightened and jerked her closer to the shadows as something sharp raked against her hip. The jocks lay on the floor with their limbs akimbo, dead weight pinning her to the floor.
“Hey, where are those beers?” someone called from upstairs.
When Paige attempted to respond, the woman leapt on top of her to straddle her chest and slap a firm hand over the lower portion of her face. The pain from having her broken nose mashed that way nearly knocked Paige out, but the sight of the woman above her was something to hold on to.
“Right down here,” the woman said calmly. Her face was slender and attractive, despite the sets of black markings that ran up along both sides of it. Clear green eyes locked upon Paige and widened as if to specifically display the black veins extending toward her pupils.
Whoever had made the inquiry about the beer stomped halfway downstairs and was met by Evan. “What’s up there is all that’s left,” he said. “But check in the bottom of the footlocker in my room. I got a stash in there that should make up for it.”
“Sweet!” was all the guys said before stomping upstairs again.
Approaching the bar so he could look over and down at Paige, Wes asked, “What now, Hope?”
“Now you hold your girlfriend down so we can all have a taste.”
“You’ve got enough to feed on already.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but Evan’s right. You’ve been holding out on us. You need to be reminded that we share so that we may all feed. It’s just not fair for you to get your pick when poor Hector needs to scavenge in the dark.”
“Hector always scavenges in the dark,” Wes said with disdain.
“But not the rest of us,” Hope said. “Not anymore.”
Paige struggled to move but was held down. Even though Hector had let go of her ankle, he’d all but crushed it. In fact, the pain flooding from her injuries filled her like water coming in through multiple leaks. Hope’s palm was cool over her mouth. Her strength, unlike Hector’s wild display of force, lay just beneath her surface and asserted itself only when necessary.
A calm brush of her fingernails against Paige’s throat was all it took for Hope to assure her that she could rip it clean away from her spine if the mood struck her. “I doubt we have much time here,” she said. “Bring your girlfriend to me before I come for her myself. If that happens, I’ll snap off pieces of her for each of us to try.”
Whatever battle of wills was going on between Wes and Evan ended with those words. The pain had given Paige’s skin a cold, clammy sheen, and the noises in the room were swirling into a breathy roar. She felt a sense of relief when Tara was laid down beside her, simply because the other girl blocked her view of Amy’s empty body. Before she could feel too guilty about that, Paige was being held down by Evan’s slender, immovable hands. Hope grabbed one of the unconscious jocks, lifted his wrist to her mouth and bit into his veins. The younger guy convulsed but was soon drifting into a more permanent sleep.
The rest of the vampires descended upon Paige and the others behind the bar in a frenzy.
Chapter Thirteen
St. Louis
Present day
Vampires. I saw them feed, watched them move, may have seen one of them fly, and I still can’t stop questioning it. I was told to write all of this down as a way to preserve what happened. I hate him for making me do this. I hate them for what they did. Right now, I just hate everyone. With the shit that’s in this world, it’s not like a little more hate will make a difference.
Cole closed Paige’s journal and rubbed his eyes. He’d been staring at the scribbled words so intently, it seemed he might have permanently etched some of them into his brain. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“Not quite,” Rico said as he walked up to the couch where Cole was sitting. “But you may still be glad to see me. What do you think?”
Grateful for a reason to set the journal down, Cole marked his spot with a gas receipt from his pocket and set the hound dog notebook on top of the stack. Rico stood beside the couch, holding what looked like a heavy patchwork curtain in front of him. When it was turned around, the curtain became a long leather coat. Although the stitching was similar to the jacket he usually wore, the material was obviously different. It was another kind of leather, with a darker reddish hue. The more Cole studied it, the more the red faded below a sheen of black, as if the bulky garment had been dipped into a vat of flame and charred to perfection.
Cole stood up so the shoulders of the coat were even with his own, and fell at its lowest edge a few inches below his knees. Grommets were sewn into the collar, under the arms, and irregularly spaced along the back. Along the sides, much like Rico’s jacket, leather cords laced almost all the way down.
Turning it around so those could be seen better, the big man explained, “You can adjust the fit whenever you like. Makes it easier to conceal whatever you may be carrying underneath.”
“So this is mine?” Cole asked.
“From what you told me about Henry’s last request, it probably shouldn’t go to anyone else. I don’t know if clothes can be haunted, but I don
’t wanna be the one to test the theory.”
Hearing Rico mention the Full Blood who’d lived inside the skin before it had been peeled off his bones, tanned, prepared, and eventually sewn into this coat, disconcerted Cole. The last request wasn’t a joke. Henry had indeed been the one to tell him where to find the leather in Lancroft’s basement. The Full Blood had to know what a Skinner would do with the material, but giving permission for it to happen reminded Cole of the talking space cow from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy that was wheeled around the tables of a restaurant so he could proudly declare how delectable his own steaks were going to be.
“Well,” Rico said expectantly. “Aren’t you gonna try it on?”
Prophet was sitting at a desk checking his e-mails on an outdated PC. Seeing the coat, he said, “If he don’t want it, I’ll take it. That should be good for at least starting some conversations with the right type of woman. Unless that’s real leather.”
“It sure is.”
“Then forget it,” Walter said as he got back to his in-box. “Too good a chance of pissing another type of woman off.”
Moving on as if Walter had never even opened his mouth, Rico said, “This is genuine Full Blood leather. Well, most of it. I had a few strips of some Half Breed to fill in the gaps, and the tops of the shoulders are mostly canvas, but the rest is all the good stuff. Do you know how hard it was to even get a stitch through it?” Gazing down at the coat as if the dead skin was attached to a living, breathing centerfold model, he said, “If I didn’t have access to some of that Blood Blade varnish to treat my tools, I wouldn’t have been able to put the damn thing together. It’s a beaut.”
“So this is stronger than Half Breed armor?” Cole asked.
“Paige uses the tactical harness way too much. That’s good for one, maybe two nights on the town. I tan my own leather, layer by layer, like what I used for my jacket. That’s formed from a Half Breed compound that can stop bullets and a whole mess of claws and fangs before needing to be repaired. This,” he said while helping Cole ease into the sleeves and setting the coat onto his shoulders, “puts all of that to shame. Anything a Full Blood can take, this can take.”
“Have you tested it?”
“We can test it right now. Got a rocket launcher?” Since Cole didn’t share his enthusiasm, Rico shrugged and added, “I shot it a few times. Didn’t leave a dent. Their fur gives them some protection, plus they can heal wounds faster than hell, but they’re also just tough. This hide should protect you a hell of a lot better than that tactical stuff Paige slaps together. It’s more fashionable too.”
From behind the computer, Prophet let out an unmistakably skeptical grunt.
“Where are the pockets?” Cole asked.
“Inside. That way you don’t lose your keys when you sit down. And if something does slip out, it’ll hit your leg so you know what happened. What’s that look about? There’s more to making these things than just lashing shit together!”
The coat was heavy on Cole’s shoulders, but conformed to him like the second skin it was. And the longer he kept it on, the less he felt it. Soon, the weight of the coat simply folded into that of his own body. “What about my spear?” he asked.
“There are loops on the inside, left and right,” Rico said. “Or you could just wear the harness upside down and draw the spear downward instead of up and over the shoulder.”
“You really thought this stuff through. I’m impressed.”
“Hey, a mind tends to wander when you’ve got so much sewing to do.” Sensing another comment from the computer desk, Rico jabbed a finger in that direction and said, “Save it, Walter.”
“Well all right then,” Cole said. “I got the long coat and spear. That only leaves one thing.” After grabbing the Mossberg Tactical Model 12-gauge shotgun propped against one wall, he held the bulky weapon in both hands, put on his best scowl and asked, “Where’s a mirror?”
“Just wait till you put this on,” Rico said as he handed over a pistol wrapped in a holster built to clip onto a belt or harness. Opting for the first choice, he had it in place before Cole knew what hit him. “That’s a .45 so it’ll work with the ammo I made for the rest of us. I got plenty of Nymar rounds as well as some of those new Blood Blade points. Once we all use the same caliber, we can pull from the same ammo pool.”
Cole set the shotgun down and tried to draw the pistol but had some trouble. “I think it’s snagged on something.”
“That’s a rig used by the Spetznaz. Russian commandos. Grab the gun by the handle, slide it down then out.”
Cole followed the instructions and felt the pistol’s mechanism move with the motion.
“Nice, huh?” Rico beamed. “The rig draws the slide back so you don’t have to. When you bring your hand up, it’s good to go. Shaves a few precious seconds off the draw time and gets you ready to do some damage that much faster.”
“Good. We’ll need this when we go to Miami.”
“No. We’re headed back to Philly. Paige can handle herself for now. If she needs us, she’ll call.”
“If she’s able to call. What if she’s lying in a ditch some-where?”
“Then we don’t have much of a chance of finding her,” Rico replied.
“Damn,” Prophet grunted. “That’s cold.”
Giving the bounty hunter a sideways glance, he asked, “You think you can find her in Miami just by asking around about a little brunette with an attitude problem and food stains on her shirt?”
Cole walked over to one of the shelves covered in supplies and books. Grabbing one eyedropper from a narrow wooden rack, he showed it to Rico and told him, “These are the drops we used before. The ones that allow us to see scents. We tracked Nymar with them and we know we can see Skinners the same way. We’ll use these to find Paige.”
Prophet was definitely intrigued by the drops, but knew better than to ask for a free sample.
“There was a breach at Lancroft’s place,” Rico said. “Two of them. We need to go back and see what the Full Bloods were after.”
“Could have been they were just after Skinners,” Cole pointed out. “That’s why Burkis hit that cabin in Canada. He heard about Gerald and Brad being there and set an ambush.”
“Gerald, Brad, and the Blood Blades were there,” Rico corrected.
“So with all the crap that was in that place, you expect us to just go in and see what’s missing? There were rooms, closets, cases, lockers, and boxes filled with God only knows what, and less than half of it was identified.”
When Rico looked over to Prophet, the bounty hunter said, “He’s got a point. I was in there. That place was piled high with Skinner shit.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t go back and have a look around,” Rico insisted. “There had to be a good reason for the Full Bloods to go in hot like that. I’ve never even heard of two of them working together like this, not to mention running with Mongrels.”
“And,” Cole replied, “there’s no reason for us to think that place isn’t a pile of rubble. They set off the explosives Lancroft rigged, remember? Didn’t you see what was left of the reformatory? The Dryads could send us right into a pile of rocks. Maybe we’ll materialize into solid—”
“Aw, for Christ’s sake, we’re not talking about beaming in like some goddamn movie.”
“Oh, excuse me. We’re talking about riding a green wave of happy thoughts and music,” Cole snapped. “Big difference.”
When Prophet started laughing, both men turned to look at him. The bounty hunter sat behind the computer, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. Knowing he was the center of attention without having to look up, he said, “You two really don’t know what the hell to do without Paige leading the way, do you?”
Rico and Cole both sputtered for a second as they tried to be the first to speak up in their own defense. Then, after thinking it over and taking stock of the situation, they found they were only sputtering. Finally, Cole took off the coat that was making h
im sweat like the proverbial working girl in church and asked, “Has there ever been this much going on with you guys? I don’t just mean Philly. I mean KC, what happened at Chicago, Henry, Misonyk, all of it. If so, how the hell didn’t I know about you guys before I met Paige?”
“It’s been a hell of a season,” Rico admitted.
“I’d like to think I’m not the new guy anymore, but I’m in over my head with this.”
Without pausing, Rico said, “We’re always in over our head.”
“You know what your problem is?” Prophet asked. “You’re used to dealing with these things like hunters and wild game. Now there’s more game out there than you can pin down. You two are just runnin’ around like kids in a candy store.”
“Got any more analogies, Walter?” Rico grunted. “Or were you heading somewhere with this?”
Prophet tapped one last key on the clunky keyboard, stood up and announced, “You need to go about this a different way. And here’s where you’re gonna be glad I came along.” He circled around the desk so he could pick up Cole’s new coat and run the unusual leather between his fingertips. “Shift your mind-set into my world on this one. Come at these guys like fugitives instead of animals.”
“We know they’re not just animals,” Rico said.
“Sure, but you’re tracking them that way.”
Cole fidgeted with the .45 to get it back into its holster as he said, “Let me guess. When you say we should track them like fugitives, you mean we should track the Nymar that your boss wants us to track.”
Doing his best to look offended, Prophet let out a few hacking breaths and glanced over to Rico. He got no support on that front, so he shifted back over to Cole and dropped the act completely. “You remember the last time you talked to my boss? You told Stanley you’d help track down those Nymar that were giving him trouble in Denver.”
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