Chicks Kick Butt - Rachel Caine, Kerrie Hughes (ed)

by Chicks Kick Butt (mobi)

  The fat one screamed again when he saw the blood and the dead, but he threw himself at Red’s feet, sobbing. “Call them off! Call them off!”

  The vores stood there, hackles raised, growling. Staring.

  Red looked down at the slave master. “If it was my choice, you’d be their prey and rightfully so.”

  Silver started stalking toward the fat man.

  “But it’s not my choice,” Red warned.

  Silver gave her a hard look.

  “Into one of the wagons,” Red ordered. “The High Baron will decide your fate.”

  “But…” The man gathered his robe tight around his body.

  “Now,” Red barked.

  The fat man scrambled off the flagstones and ran for the wagon door.

  “You’re hurt,” the Queen’s man said to her.

  “It can wait.” Red managed to sheathe her dagger, and pushed the weakened hand into her belt. “We need to open the main gates, and send word to the High Baron. Then there’s questions to ask, and slaves to free.”

  “Aye to that.” The young one smiled. “And then there’s them.”

  The vores were all seated, staring at them. Red could swear they were listening.

  “True enough.” Red looked around the courtyard. “We’ll summon the High Baron, and see if we can find some answers. Can you get the main gate open by yourself?”

  “I’ll try.” The young man pushed himself up with the help of the wall. “But what will you be doing?”

  Red looked over at the guardhouse. “Oh, I’ve a promise to keep.”

  SUPERMAN

  by Jeanne C. Stein

  PROLOGUE

  My name is Anna Strong. I am vampire. It’s been over a month since I fed. A month since the first anniversary of my becoming. A month since I assumed the mantle of the Chosen One. I’ve gone about my daily routine as if nothing has changed, when in reality, everything has changed.

  I move out to the deck off my bedroom and sink into a chaise. The early-morning sun is hot on my face. It feels good. I can almost feel my blood warming, though I know that’s an illusion. Only feeding and sex warm a vampire’s blood.

  I haven’t had either in a while.

  I sip coffee. A few blocks away, the ocean sparkles under a flawless summer sky. I live in San Diego, Mission Beach to be exact, near the boardwalk. I love it here. The sea is vibrant, alive. People drawn to it are vibrant and alive, too. Kids at play in the sand, surfers bobbing on the waves, sunbathers eschewing warnings of dire consequences to bake pasty skin to a toasty brown. All share a common bond. They are human. They belong.

  I drain my cup, rise to go inside. I’m feeling the effects of lack of blood. Like a diabetic without insulin, my body is slowing down, my mind becoming sluggish. I’d better call Culebra and make sure he can arrange a host to meet me at Beso de la Muerte. I can’t afford to let myself become vulnerable—not anymore. Not to anyone.

  CHAPTER

  The guy waiting for me in Culebra’s back room looks to be about thirty. He’s lying naked on the bed, his clothes folded neatly on a bedside chair. He has a sheet thrown over the lower part of his body. He’s lean, muscular, with the arrogant good looks of a guy used to having his way with women. He smiles when he sees me, a smile of relief and anticipation. I’m sure the relief is because I’m female (a host never knows) and the anticipation that because I’m female, sex will be a part of the deal.

  I pull a wad of cash out of my purse and lay it on top of his clothes. “I just want the blood,” I tell him. “Whatever you do while I’m feeding is up to you, but I don’t intend to participate.”

  “Are you sure?” The guy pushes the sheet off his hips. He started without me.

  If the size of his dick is supposed to impress me, my reaction must be a bitter disappointment. I flutter fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, I’m sure. Face the wall, please.”

  “Don’t you want to know my name?”

  “No.”

  He grunts and rolls over. I position myself behind him, spoon style, and pull his head closer. My body vibrates from need and the heady sensation that comes from watching blood coarse through an artery just a kiss away. His hands are busy between his legs and he groans before I break through the skin.

  Then I’m lost in my own sensations. His blood is sweet and clean, his fitness the result of good diet and exercise, not pills or needles. Not that it would matter. Vampires are immune from human drugs and disease. Only the taste differs, like drinking vinegar or wine, and I’m pleased with this vintage. The first mouthful brings intense pleasure, my body now tingling with something other than hunger. There’s a fleeting moment when I am tempted to roll him over, to mount him, feel him inside me while I feed.

  But I resist.

  The blood is enough. It awakens every cell in my body. It revives and restores. My skin warms. A flush of heat floods my cheeks. My senses become needle sharp. The feel of the host’s skin against my lips, the smell of his arousal, the quickness of his breath, I experience it all. His heartbeat. Steady, rhythmic, until he nears climax. Then his heart begins to race until it reaches a crescendo and his body tenses. He moans, grinds against me, one hand clutches the sheet, the other moves faster and with more urgency.

  I keep feeding until the last shudder of release passes and he is quiet beside me. I use my tongue to seal the puncture wounds, watch as the marks fade. He does not speak or move. In a minute, his breathing becomes deep and regular and I know.

  He’s fallen asleep.

  CHAPTER

  When I join Culebra at the bar, he looks past me toward the door to the back room. “Is he still alive?”

  He hands me a bottle of Dos Equis with a lime wedge propped on the rim. He could be an extra in a John Ford western, lean, craggy-faced, and, at the moment, determined to get answers.

  I squeeze the lime down into the bottle. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  He takes another beer from a cooler under the bar and motions for me to follow him to a table. When we’re both seated he answers. “You looked hungry when you walked in. How long has it been since you fed?”

  I shrug. “A while.”

  He watches me drink. “It’s been a while since we talked, too. A month to be exact. I have a lot of questions.”

  One of the reasons I’ve stayed away.

  Culebra picks that thought out of the ether. He frowns. “I thought I was your friend.”

  He shuts me out of his head. He’s angry or disappointed. Maybe both. I can’t tell. But the result is the same. I give in with a sigh. “Sorry. You are my friend. I should have been in touch sooner.”

  I glance around the bar. It’s almost empty this early on a Sunday morning. There are a couple of vamps sitting with two human women. The snatches of thought I catch from the vamps are that they’re well fed and well sexed and are looking for a way to leave gracefully without offending the female hosts. They may want a repeat performance down the line. The vibes the females give off tell me they wouldn’t object. I watch them a few moments until Culebra is back in my head.

  You’re stalling.

  I’m granted another reprieve when my host appears at the door. He grins at me with a look calculated to let anyone watching think I’d sucked more than his neck. I’m tempted to make a snarky remark, but don’t. I simply let him swagger over to the other table. The females greet him, and in another moment, all five leave with a parting wave to Culebra.

  We’re now alone.

  Culebra waves his bottle in the direction of the door. “I assume that look was a bit of bravado for the benefit of his friends.”

  I laugh. “You’ll need to change those sheets.”

  The moment passes. I feel the intenseness of Culebra’s eyes as he waits. I release a breath. “What have you heard?”

  “The challenge. What happened with Lance. The way you handled Chael. Sounds like you did well for yourself.”

  Did I? What I didn’t tell Frey, what I’m hiding from Culebra now, is th
at nothing was settled. Not really. Chael is still intent on pursuing his own course. A course designed to elevate vampires to the top of the food chain and relegate humans to nothing more than fodder, an expendable food source whose only existence would be to serve their vampire masters.

  Culebra’s voice breaks through my dark thoughts.

  “What are you hiding from me, Anna?”

  “Nothing.” Everything.

  His thoughts are like a laser, trying to bore into mine. I know you better than that. What aren’t you telling me?

  I raise the beer bottle to my lips, drain it. Rise. “Have to go, my friend. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  Culebra doesn’t answer. I feel the heat of his frustration as I start to leave.

  “Wait.”

  I half turn, pause.

  “I had a visitor yesterday. He left you a message.”

  “Who would leave a message for me here?”

  Culebra crosses to the bar, reaches behind it for a folded piece of paper. “Somebody who is afraid you wouldn’t return his calls if he tried to reach you directly.”

  He holds the note out to me. As soon as I see the signature, I understand why he’d go through Culebra. He’s right. I wouldn’t have returned his calls.

  The note is from Max.

  Culebra feels the anger build as I stare down at the note. Max is an ex-boyfriend. Human. Couldn’t take off fast enough when he found out what I am, even though it’s because of what I am that he’s alive today. To make matters worse, he decided that sex with a vampire while acting as a host was a pretty damned good way to get his rocks off. So he comes here to enjoy fucking vampires. Anonymous vampires. It’s me he doesn’t want to fuck anymore.

  My hand curls into a fist, crushing the note. “Why would you take this? You know how I feel about Max and his new hobby.”

  Culebra holds up a hand in defense. “Max hasn’t come here to be a host for some time. Whatever he needed to get out of his system, he seems to have succeeded.”

  “You mean me, right? He needed to get me out of his system.”

  Culebra shakes his head. “Read the damn note, will you?”

  I drag my eyes back to the note, open my hand, smooth the paper against my thigh. I can’t imagine being interested in anything Max has to say to me. The bastard left without saying good-bye.

  The handwriting is cramped, uneven. As if he wrote the note in a hurry.

  Anna. I need your help. Call me. Max.

  “Wow.” I wave the note toward Culebra. “This makes me want to drop everything and ring him right up. He doesn’t even say please. Christ. Why would I want to help him?”

  Culebra lifts his shoulders. “It must be important.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Didn’t tell you what exactly?”

  “For Christ’s sake, call him, will you?” Culebra’s irritation flares, radiates outward from his thoughts and burns into my head. Don’t be so goddamned stubborn.

  I don’t even know if I still have his number. A last whining excuse.

  Of course you still have his number. In your cell.

  He’s right. Not that I’ll give him the satisfaction of telling him. Just like I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that deep down I want to call Max. Only to satisfy my curiosity. Only to find out how Max plans to grovel his way back into my good graces. Only to enjoy turning him down no matter what he says.

  His leaving was no laughing matter, but telling him to go to hell would be good for a laugh, not to mention my ego.

  I turn my back on Culebra and stomp out, letting one thought drift back.

  Fucking men.

  CHAPTER

  On the drive back home I debate with myself.

  Do I want to call Max? It’s been eight months since the last time we ran into each other in Beso de la Muerte under less-than-perfect conditions.

  Why would I want to call Max? On the off chance that he wants to tell me what an ass he’s been and to thank me at long last for saving his ass in Mexico?

  Shit.

  It irritates me to realize I’m curious. It irritates me to realize I want to know why he wants to talk to me.

  It irritates the hell out of me to realize I know how long it’s been since I’ve seen him without doing the math.

  I’m sure Culebra knows more than he let on. Max is a drug enforcement agent. He spends quite a bit of time in Mexico, and has used Culebra as an informant. Not in an official capacity. Culebra has a lot of contacts on both sides of the law and the border. He and Max have a quid pro quo arrangement. Culebra helps Max when he can, and in turn, Max keeps quiet when he comes to Beso de la Muerte to ensure that those under Culebra’s protection are not hassled.

  At least that’s the way it worked when Max and I were together.

  A lifetime ago.

  CHAPTER

  I’ve been sitting on the bed staring at the telephone in my hand for fifteen minutes. Max’s number is up on the screen, just waiting for my finger to press SEND. I’m not sure now why I’m so hesitant. There’s only one reason I’d call him, and the only thing I have to decide is the number of expletives to insert before I tell him to fuck off.

  So what’s the problem?

  I suck it up and punch SEND.

  He picks up so fast, it takes me a second to realize he’s on the line.

  “Max?”

  “Anna.” There’s relief in his voice. “Thanks for calling. I need to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone. Can I come in?”

  My grip on the phone tightens. “What do you mean, come in? Where are you?”

  “Outside. On the boardwalk.”

  I cross the bedroom to the deck, look toward the ocean. The boardwalk is crowded. It takes me a second to locate him. Max is leaning against the seawall, staring up toward the cottage. He waves when he sees me. But it’s not a cheery wave and he’s not smiling.

  I’m not smiling either. “What are you doing here? How did you know I’d call?”

  “I didn’t, but Culebra told me you’d picked up the note.”

  “Did he also tell you I don’t want to talk to you?”

  “Yes. I’m glad to see he was wrong.”

  “He wasn’t wrong. There’s only one reason I’d call you. To tell you to fuck off—”

  “Anna, please.” I see Max cup his hand around the phone. “If there was anyone else I could go to about this I would. You are the only one who can help.”

  “Jesus, Max.” Irritation and anger crash like cymbals in my head. “Why so dramatic? You sound like you’re jonesing for a fix. God. Is that what this is about? You tired of screwing anonymous vamps? You remembering what a good thing you threw away?”

  “No. Anna.” He bites off the words. “Everything isn’t about you. I need you because I think I’m dealing with a vampire. A vicious vampire. And I don’t know how to fight him. I thought you’d want to help. Culebra thought you’d want to help. Guess we were both wrong.”

  He snaps his cell phone shut, ending the conversation before I can respond. He doesn’t look my way again, but heads up the boardwalk toward the parking lot. He shoulders are drawn up, his strides long, fast, stiff with anger.

  Shit. A vampire? It takes me about a heartbeat to decide. I’m probably going to regret this, but I’m down the stairs, have grabbed up my purse and keys and reached the end of the boardwalk before he does.

  Max isn’t startled when I appear in front of him like a genie sprung from a bottle. He knows what I can do. But he doesn’t look relieved or pleased either. He stares down at me from his six-foot-three-inch vantage point and waits for me to speak first.

  “What do you mean you’re dealing with a vampire?”

  His shoulders hunch up even more. The lines of his face draw down, as if weighted. He looks tired. He looks stressed. The Max I knew—the one with lively blue eyes, a quick smile, and sun-burnished Latino good looks—h
as been swallowed up by this sallow-faced, sober, weary doppelgänger.

  “Are you sure you want to hear this? Or are you waiting for another opportunity to tell me what a fuckup I’ve been?”

  I close the distance between us and jab a finger into his chest. “Oh, I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to do that. Right now, I want to know what you meant on the telephone.”

  He looks around. “Let’s walk. I don’t want to risk being overheard.”

  The boardwalk teems with people. Skateboarders, cyclists, Rollerbladers, joggers. If we walk here, we’ll spend most of our time dodging incoming. I’m not going to invite him to the cottage, either. I don’t want him invading my personal space.

  “Let’s cross to the bay side.”

  He doesn’t object. Neither of us speaks until after we’ve crossed Mission and headed for the sidewalk that runs along the harbor. Here the view spans the San Diego skyline on one side, row on row of condos and apartments on the other. There’s a marina and a small park. We head for the benches in the middle of the park. We choose the one that faces a playground. The water is at our backs and we have a clear view of the sidewalk. It’s much quieter here.

  “So talk.”

  Max looks toward the sidewalk, eyes restlessly scanning the faces of the people moving at a Sunday-afternoon, warm-summer’s-day kind of pace. I look, too. But I know I’m not seeing the same things he is. He’s looking at them with cop eyes.

  “I’ve been working a joint task force with the Mexican border patrol,” he says at last. “Drugs mostly. But in the last month, we’ve been finding something else on our patrols. Bodies drained of blood. Entire families killed and dumped in the desert. No clue as to who is doing it. At first we thought it was some local drug lord’s new and vicious way to intimidate.”

  “But now?”

  “The victims all had their throats slashed. But there’s never any blood at the scene. None. The tox screens we’ve run always come back negative for drugs. They’re not addicts or dealers. The victims have no connection to local law enforcement either, always a favorite target of the cartel. We’ve traced some of the victims to places in Latin America and as far south as Ecuador. A hell of a long way to transport bodies just to dump them. They’re from poor families. If they were carrying anything of value on them, it’s gone by the time we find them. All that’s left is the clothes they’re wearing.”