by Nazri Noor
Gil dragged me by the back of the jacket towards the back room, which was really just a regular empty doorway covered in those beads that hippies loved so much. I elbowed him off, shrugging my jacket back into place.
“Watch the goods,” I said, frowning. “You don’t want me exploding here, of all places, do you?”
Gil frowned back harder. “You wore that jacket? Here, of all places?”
I lifted my nose proudly. “I love this jacket. I wear it everywhere. You should know that.”
He muttered obscenities under his breath as he led the way through the curtain. The beads parted in a clicking, multicolored wave. Not just plastic, I noticed, catching glimpses of chips of turquoise, Apache tears, vibrant layered shades of agate. The gemstones ran cold across my cheek, like little drops of ice. There was possibly some low-level magic at work here, something like the Twilight Tavern’s nullification, certainly something meant to protect whatever was waiting in the back room.
And that, as it turned out, was just a mostly empty black box with a number of chairs and couches spread around a central coffee table. A single man sat sprawled across the largest sofa. The rock music from outside didn’t penetrate all the way there. It made it extremely easy to hear the man’s annoyed, perhaps borderline disgusted clucking of the tongue. He cocked one thick eyebrow, bisected from an old scar.
“Seriously, Gilberto? I don’t see you for months, and then you show up with this shit?”
“You know I wouldn’t just show up under normal circumstances,” Gil said. “We need to talk, Damien.”
Damien looked me up and down, clearly unimpressed. “I don’t know that I want to talk with him in the room.”
His voice was gruff. Everything else about Damien was gruff, too: the thick black beard, the slicked-back hair, the coarse down running up his forearms. You could tell he was the Blood of Garm’s alpha from a mile away. He wore a weathered denim vest over equally weathered, though extremely sturdy-looking jeans, the kind you’d find on a biker. I wondered if this was the uniform for all werewolves. Even Gil liked to dress similarly, albeit with a little less tear and tatter.
“His presence is important,” Gil said, his tone firm, but respectful. “Sterling is my colleague, and my friend. We’ve worked together forever, and we’re going to continue working together on this string of murders.”
Damien wagged his finger at Gil, his smile and his tone dripping with sarcasm. “See, this is why our people don’t like you, Gil. Not just the fact that you force the transformation like you know better than the moon herself. It’s these types you hang around with.”
“These types?” I chuckled, pushing back my hair. “You mean lean, handsome, and suave?”
Damien leaned forward, gripping his knees as he glared at me. “Watch it, bloodsucker. You already know you aren’t wanted around here. Don’t make things worse for yourself.”
That brief, tiny lull in the conversation? That little pause? The only thing less appropriate than filling it with an insubordinate wisecrack was to answer it with a taunt. Every muscle in my body told me to shut the fuck up. But the most dominant one, my tongue, won the battle.
“Or else what?”
Gil slapped himself in the forehead. Damien brooded as he studied me, the line of his mouth deciding between a scowl and a sadistic smile. He rubbed his beard, then nodded.
“Blood trial.”
“Sounds fun,” I said.
“Will you shut the fuck up already?” Gil snarled.
“Blood trial,” Damien repeated.
He got up from the sofa, which was when I finally noticed how big and burly he really was, standing a foot tall over me. He was much beefier, too, at least twice my weight. The man could probably benchpress a grizzly bear.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so cocky.
When Damien cracked his knuckles, it seemed like a warning, of what my bones might sound like when his fists collided with them.
“Parking lot,” he said. “Ten minutes.”
9
“What the fuck is a blood trial?”
I’d asked Gil that question approximately ten minutes ago, shortly after he’d shoved me back out through the beaded curtains. We had to leave because Damien was busy doing one-armed pushups in the back room. Maybe he was going to drink a smoothie made from bald eagle eggs and bullets, too. I don’t know.
A blood trial was basically a glorified fistfight, meant for settling disputes, or as in this case, probably as an excuse for Damien to crack my head open. Fine, it’s more serious than that, with a scoring system that looked to me like a watered-down version of fencing. The first person to draw blood three times was the victor. It’d have to be from three wounds. It didn’t matter how small or how life-threateningly serious said wounds were, as long as they bled at all.
“And it’s just about the most dangerous game you can play with an alpha,” Gil said, practically spitting at me out in the parking lot. “Jesus, Sterling, just what were you thinking?”
“I guess I wasn’t.” I shrugged, reaching for my pocket, looking for a cigarette. Gil swatted at my hand. I drew it back, rubbing at the sting. “Ow. Okay, you’re pissed, I get it.”
Asher came jogging up to us, his shoes scraping at the asphalt. “What the fuck is going on? There’s all these people coming out of the bar and they’re hooting and hollering. Is there going to be a fight? Is this my first bar fight?”
“Something like that,” Gil said. “You’re not going to be involved. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, Jackie said that, too. She said that some dumb idiot pissed off the alpha, and there’s going to be a – what did she call it again – a blood trial?” He paused for a moment, then stared directly into my eyes. “Oh no. Sterling. Are you that dumb idiot?”
“Listen. You guys, listen. This’ll be fine. I’ll score three points, then we get to ask our questions. Okay? Big deal. Whatever happens, I’ll heal up by morning. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Gil bared his teeth at me, his fists shaking. “The last guy Damien faced in a blood trial was disemboweled. They had to put his insides in a duffle bag. See if you can heal out of that, you stupid, stupid moron.” He mussed up his hair and stalked off, muttering.
I shook my head, watching as Gil talked to Jackie about something that looked important. “I think he’s pissed. You think he’s pissed?”
“Take this seriously, Sterling. You could get hurt.”
“Sure,” I said, patting Asher on the cheek. He flinched at the cold of my hand, but kept frowning at me. “So how did it go with Jackie? Did she introduce you to all the wicked ways of women?”
His eyes lit up. “Actually, we had a really interesting conversation about the town. She says we should stop by the local graveyard if we’re trying to sniff things out. That Uriah Everett you mentioned, I think he’s buried there. We can get some answers.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s my boy, meeting girls and nerding it up.”
“Bloodsucker. Ten minutes are up.”
Damien’s voice echoed across the parking lot, gravelly and dark as he led the last of his pack out of the Dead Dog. The excitement was palpable, and I tried not to let the fact that the werewolves were arranging themselves into a circle around us bother me.
I couldn’t tell you where the antipathy between werewolves and vampires really began, or when, for that matter. It was just something that had always been there. I’ll be the first to admit: we vampires are stuck so far up our own asses that we don’t really need coffins to hide from the daylight.
Vampires in general consider themselves an elite species: noble, calculating, and supremely intelligent. Werewolves, as my brethren like to believe, are feral, uncouth, and disorganized. Which is a load of crap, anyway. Pack hierarchies existed, for one thing, and they had all these clans and tribes all over the place. And again, I’d never deny that vampires are just as capable of being violent killers. We’re probably worse.
But Gil and I were past that
. It’d never been a problem. Gil’s only issue with me was my mouth, and fine, maybe my occasional abuse of cologne and body spray. My only real issue with him was how he never adequately cleaned up after trimming his goddamn beard over the sink.
Damien sniffed at the air, then growled. “The jacket comes off. I smell the stink of magic on you, bloodsucker. Play fair, for once in your corrupted life.”
He wasn’t wrong, though as a point of pride, I tried not to rely on enchantments and artifacts too much. I only owned two magical items. Three, if you counted my amazing face.
“I’m taking it off because I want to,” I said. “Not because you asked me to.” The chorus of boos that went up from the circle was predictable, and maybe slightly hurtful.
I shrugged off my jacket, handing it to Asher. The black tank I was left wearing underneath could work to my advantage. If nothing else, maybe my undead pallor would end up blinding Damien. And fine, I wanted to expose all that skin because it was basically bait. If Damien believed that he’d have an easier time scoring points, then he’d be a little overeager in the fight. Better chance of him slipping up.
But really, it was for mobility, and to avoid any mishaps. Explosive ones, like Gil had suggested. The jacket was custom-made, designed by a pair of drag queen enchantresses. Specific, I know. Metric and Imperial Fuck-Ton were literal wizards when it came to creating enchanted garments, and this one in particular was designed with a bunch of hidden pockets.
Each pocket led to a different compartment within the same miniature dimension, letting me carry all sorts of things. Extra cartons of cigarettes, hairstyling products, and maybe there was a car battery in there somewhere, too, just in case. But the real prize was a sword I’d won in a duel. Pity I couldn’t use it in the blood trial.
The main point of taking it off, though, was to avoid an incident. Severe physical damage could rupture the delicate dimensional barriers sewn into the leather. I could already tell that this fight was going to get pretty damn ugly, and while I trusted the Fuck-Tons’ craftsmanship, I didn’t want to risk the effects of dimensional collapse. It could probably blow the parking lot, the Dead Dog, and all of our stupid corpses right off the face of the earth.
Damien’s chuckle drew my attention. He was assessing me, and not-so-subtly dissing me to his subordinates. “Scrawny little runt, isn’t he?” Cue derisive laughter, multiplied by however many wolves had gathered in the parking lot.
I rolled my shoulders, relishing the popping of my joints. “Wiry’s more like it. Slender. Svelte.”
Damien narrowed his eyes. “Irritating, more like.” He curled his hands into fists, then stretched out his fingers, groaning. Blood trickled from his nails as they extended longer, and longer, and shit, still longer, until they’d grown into glistening talons. He saw the surprise in my eyes, then grinned. “Ready when you are.”
Partial transformation, huh? Was that how alphas worked? Or maybe this was a thing for all werewolves. Gil could definitely do it, though I’d always assumed that he was one of the few who could pull the claw trick. Still, that was technically cheating. Come on. What was I going to do to balance out the brawl? Bite him?
“Hold up,” I said. “This is hardly fair. I thought we were just going to punch it out.”
The look of disappointment on Damien’s face was pretty satisfying, and then Gil came in with backup. “Sterling’s got a point. Wolf versus wolf, that’s fine if everybody pulls out their claws. But it’s a blood trial. The playing field’s got to be even.”
Damien glowered, groaning again as he retracted his claws. He ran his fingers across his lips, licking away his own blood, like he somehow knew that I hadn’t been eating so well. The bastard. It smelled so good, too – dark, rich, and a little gamey.
“Fine. We can do fists and feet. Or – or wait.” He sniffed again, taking one step forward, his focus homing in on, of all things, my jacket bundled in Asher’s arms. “Magical weapon. You’ve got one somewhere in that little peacoat of yours.”
“It’s not a peacoat, damn it. But fine, yes. I’ve got a sword. What’s your point?” I didn’t voice the fact that I found how he could smell magical essences across entire dimensions impressive. Damn alphas were alphas for a reason.
Damien grinned so widely that I thought his mouth had partially transformed, too. But his teeth were just that huge, and that sharp. “I’ve got my own sword, too. Blade against blade. That seems fair.”
I shrugged. “Fine. Sounds good. Let’s do it.” I stepped over to Asher, rummaging through the pockets until my fingers brushed against my beloved sword’s lacquered wooden scabbard. Whispers went around the circle as I pulled it out, and kept pulling, until all three or so feet of it had been extracted from its pocket dimension.
Someone scuttled up to Damien, handing him a long object wrapped in a dark red shroud. He slipped it off, revealing a two-handed sword that was nearly the length of my entire body. Seriously, how was any of this fair?
He lifted the sword above his head, prompting reverent oohs and aahs from the crowd, along with plenty of cheering. It was a beautiful sword, granted, the pommel shaped like a wolf’s head, the blade gleaming in the moonlight.
“Brothers and sisters,” Damien said. “This is a very special occasion. Garm’s Fang will taste vampire blood tonight.”
More cheering, and a fair few curses and slurs thrown my way. I shrugged and did a few squats and stretches. Garm’s Fang, huh? The blade was clearly forged out of some dark metal, so that was probably just a fancy name for the sword. But if this really was Garm’s tooth, then the son of a bitch must have been massive.
“Dude,” Asher muttered. “Something’s off about that sword. I can sense it. Necromantic energy, too. These guys serve an entity from the underworld. I wouldn’t be surprised if that thing had nasty enchantments on it.”
I nodded, finally willing to show him that I was taking this seriously. “I’ll be careful not to get nicked.”
He rolled my jacket up under his arm. “You better not. Like hell are we going to pack your entrails in a duffle bag. We’ll just leave you on the pavement to rot.” He winked at me as he left to join Gil and Jackie at the edge of the circle. “Good luck. Don’t die.”
“I’ll try not to.”
A necromantic sword, eh? It was interesting, how the two wolf clans Gil had mentioned both seemed dedicated to entities of a destructive, if not apocalyptic nature. The Fenrir Folk didn’t sound like they were very interested in peace. The Blood of Garm hadn’t struck me as especially bloodthirsty so far, but they were named for a proper psychopomp, a thing of the dead.
“Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” Jackie said, her voice carrying above the din. “The blood trial has begun.”
She lowered her hand, and fists went pumping and flying up in excitement. Damien pulled Garm’s Fang in a trail across the ground, sending sparks leaping from the asphalt. Faint green tendrils looped up and down the blade, traces of its dark energy.
I raised my scabbard, grinning. Magic sword, huh? Two can play at that game.
10
The lacquered wood of the scabbard felt so familiar under my touch, as was the cord wrapped tightly around the katana’s hilt. Now, swords weren’t necessarily my first choice when it came to warfare. But when you win one in a duel against an actual god, you work that thing into your routine and your wardrobe. You learn how to use it, and you show it off at every given opportunity.
I took my time unsheathing the blade, relishing the tang of magic it released into the air as the scabbard slid off. I admit, I deeply enjoyed the fascinated noises of admiration the sword was eliciting. Arcs of electricity danced along the blade, the sword itself as deadly as a spire of handheld lightning. This was, after all, a gift from Susanoo, the Japanese god of storms. Great guy, honestly. Very likable, and we had a similar sense of fashion.
My fingers clenched tightly, my right hand on the hilt of the katana, my left around the dark wood of the scabbard. The wolves around the
circle might have appreciated the novelty of seeing a second enchanted sword, but if Damien was impressed, he didn’t show it. He stood like a modern-day knight across from me, stoic and strong. I knew the kind of fighter that Damien was. Large and in charge, using brute strength to dominate his opponents. We couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. Werewolf versus vampire. Beefy versus skinny. Way too hairy versus way too handsome.
And then he dashed across the parking lot, moving far faster than his two-hundred pound bulk should make possible. The claymore came down from overhead, smashing into the ground as I danced out of the way at the very last minute. Bits of gravel stung as they struck my forearm. I took a quick second to stare at the crater Damien had made in the asphalt.
Oh, shit.
I spun away as Damien swung his sword again. Garm’s Fang sang as it cleaved huge arcs through the air, the sheer length of the blade giving Damien the advantage of terrifying reach with every strike. I ducked, hitting the ground as he swung it horizontally, a move that could quite realistically have lopped my head off. But the size and weight of Garm’s Fang made it unwieldy, and Damien still had to hang on and control the sword as it followed through.
He was open.
I darted in, prepared to strike, the god’s blade crackling in my grip. Seemingly out of nowhere, Damien’s fist came smashing into my face.
The punch threw me off balance, the pain intense enough to make me see stars. I scrabbled away from Damien, fighting to find my footing as my vision cleared. I clutched at my jaw, tasting blood. Ah, fuck.
“Point wolves,” Jackie called out.
At least half the watchers in the crowd threw their heads back and howled into the night. I licked the blood off my lip. Home turf advantage. What stung even more was knowing that any vampires in the circle wouldn’t have cheered me on, either. It just wasn’t our thing. Polite clapping, maybe. Maybe. This was demoralizing.