Runner

by Roh Morgon

  The bike engines echo between the steel buildings, fading to a muted rumble as we pull in front of a hangar and coast to a stop in its shadows. Several other motorcycles—brightly colored crotch rockets—and a black SUV are parked together near the open bay door. A black Mercedes limousine sits apart from them, its dark windows concealing whoever might be inside.

  A group of Chosen saunters out of the hangar as Taz and Redd shut off their engines. There are seven of them, all good-sized males. Three of them wear sport biker garb, but what gets my attention are the four military types carrying Uzis.

  First a trashy biker bar. Now some sort of covert, and probably illegal, operation. Taz and his crew hang out with a real savory cast of characters.

  The underbelly of Chosen existence is sure a far cry from Nicolas’s elite lifestyle.

  Taz pokes my leg and I follow his cue to get off. He dismounts and hangs his helmet from the handlebars, leaving on his sunglasses.

  “Stay here with Chia. But keep your helmet on and be ready to go. Got it?”

  I nod, wondering if he knows any other way to communicate besides giving orders, then carefully lean back against the seat of the Harley to watch whatever is about to unfold.

  He and Redd stride over to the group. Greetings are exchanged, accompanied by tight smiles, but no handshaking. Apparently contact, either formal or casual, is something Chosen avoid with each other as well as with humans who aren’t their meal of the day.

  And these Chosen, wearing amber and violet auras like those at the club on Halloween night, all seem to be of Nicolas’s descent. I can almost taste his stamp upon them.

  I want to ask Chia what’s happening, but we’re not exactly on speaking terms. She’s squatting motionless on the ground beside Redd’s bike, and one look at the simmering anger creasing her face tells me we may never be.

  The varying pitch of aircraft engines both in the air and on the ground deadens the quiet banter among the group of Chosen. Taz and Redd hold themselves a little apart from the others, and I sense an uneasy truce binding them all together.

  All talk ceases as a white Lear jet, bearing no identifying marks other than a long number on its tail, taxis up to the hangar and stops.

  It sits idling, the roar of its engines drowning out all other sounds. The blue-white strobe lights and flashing orange beacons pierce the darkness in and around the hangar like some sort of bizarre rock concert laser show. Movements within the group of waiting Chosen appear herky-jerky from the pulsing lights, shifting the tableau into a cheesy haunted house attraction as they ready their weapons and spread out. Their focus is not on the plane, but the area surrounding it.

  The bright strobes cut off as the door opens and a stairway lowers to the tarmac. Two mountainous Chosen dressed in dark suits step down and look around. One of them speaks into a collar-mounted microphone. They move to either side of the stairway and stand, continuously scanning the area around the plane.

  The presidential-level security means only one thing.

  An Elder. Or maybe even… Nicolas.

  Nicolas.

  I ease to my feet, breath held tight, and watch the open doorway.

  A tall figure in a tailored suit steps down the stairs.

  The involuntary cry in my throat dies as the sharp edge of a dagger presses against the back of my neck.

  “Don’t you say a fucking word, bitch.” Chia, perched on Taz’s bike behind me, yanks my ponytail. “And don’t fucking move, either, or you’ll be wearing a backward smile—right before I slice off your head.”

  Her threat doesn’t still the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me. I watch the well-guarded Chosen walk toward the waiting limousine, trailed by his bodyguards and several others from the plane, and Chia tugs again on my ponytail.

  No . . .

  But it’s not Nicolas. Not his walk, not his grace, not his beautifully arrogant bearing.

  It is, however, one of his Elders. Robert. From Los Angeles.

  And as the recognition tenses my body, Chia’s dagger bites deeper. Blood traces its way down my back and I resist the urge to twist around and tear her apart.

  Robert pauses a moment, his nostrils flaring as he looks in our direction.

  Not just our direction. He’s looking at me. His aura, amber with yellow instead of violet, pulses several times. Dozens of threads in dozens of colors writhe through it like a nest of angry snakes.

  Gaze hardening, he disappears into the limousine, followed by his retinue. The group near the hangar moves toward the SUV and sport bikes.

  Taz and Redd waste no time returning to their own motorcycles, but both wear frowns as they approach. Chia says nothing more and releases me.

  The harsh look Taz gives me indicates he missed none of my reaction to Robert, nor Robert’s to me, and I steel myself for the interrogation he’s sure to deliver later.

  He tugs on his helmet, slides onto the seat, and starts the Harley, staring back over his shoulder at me as I climb on. Redd’s bike fires up and we roll into position behind the black SUV as it takes off after the departing limo.

  The sport bikes race ahead of the procession in a staggered formation and within minutes we’re on the freeway heading north to San Francisco.

  Our progress slows when we exit onto city streets I’m a little more familiar with. As we travel up and down the city’s signature hills, the sport bikes in front of the SUV add a peculiar note to the echoes bouncing back at us from the Victorian row houses lining our route, which seems to be heading into the upscale neighborhoods of Pacific Heights.

  The SUV turns a corner up yet another steep street. But instead of following, Taz pulls over to the curb and waves Redd on past. Redd and the SUV both disappear over the top of the hill. Taz keeps his bike idling. He makes no move to get off.

  Rock-hard muscles in his back, along with a rigid silence, indicate the rest of our evening is about to get even worse than it began. I debate slipping off the bike and high-tailing it down the hill, but my thoughts of escape wither beneath the thunder of a Harley engine announcing Redd’s return. Taz silently shifts into gear as Redd passes, only to shoot by the other bike in a mad race to the bottom of the hill. I cringe and hang on tight, suddenly terrified that Taz’s rage is going to smear us all over the pavement.

  We make it back to Mill Valley in what I’m sure is record time. But when Redd slows and turns into the driveway, Taz cranks the throttle. We roar past the house, leaning so far over in the curves my footpegs are nearly scraping.

  Chosen or not, we are going to die.

  I close my eyes and hang on.

  CHAPTER 48

  But we don’t crash. Taz finally slows and pulls off the road at a turnout overlooking a wild area I’m guessing is Mt. Tamalpais State Park.

  He shuts off the bike. After several long moments of absolute stillness, he takes a deep breath.

  “Get off.”

  I slowly swing my leg over, hand him my helmet, and take a stand near the edge of the slope. I don’t know why we stopped here, but I’m sure I’m about to get an earful.

  Taz dismounts, then pushes his bike into a gap between a large boulder and the brush on the edge of the hill so that it’s hidden from anyone else who might pull in—though I don’t know who else would be out here at two in the morning.

  Glancing down the steep drop-off, I decide the terrain would be a tough area in which to hunt. The slope is a jumble of sandstone boulders and dense brush, and locating a deer in all that might be like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack.

  I look back at Taz. He’s walking toward me, eyes blazing red, an ugly curl to his lip. A low growl rumbles from his chest as his fingers arch and stiffen into dagger-like talons.

  “I’m done playin’ games. Who the hell are you? You’re gonna tell me, or— ”

  Instinct takes hold, and with no further thoughts, I dive over the hill, aiming for a big rock about twenty feet below. My hands and feet touch down, and I push off for the next one, land,
and launch again, then hit the ground running. Bushes and low-hanging branches snatch at my clothing as I half-run, half-slide down the steep slope.

  The sounds of snapping brush and Taz’s grunts tell me he’s right behind me. I start zig-zagging, feeling like a rabbit with a mountain lion on its tail. Darting to the left, I catch sight of his big hand reaching for me and duck away to the right. A giant boulder looms ahead of me and I leap for its top, then leap again.

  The breath explodes from my chest as Taz slams into me mid-air. A dense patch of brush breaks our fall, but gives way and we tumble down the slope in a tangle of arms and legs. I bite and kick and try to claw free, but can’t dislodge his hold on me.

  His weight pounds me into the ground over and over again as we roll and slide through the underbrush. I feel my ribs crack on a sharp rock.

  On the next bounce, my left shoulder erupts into red hot coals of pain.

  We smash to a stop against a boulder and his grip loosens. Wreathed in agony, I shove away from him and stagger to my feet, only to have them yanked out from under me.

  I land on my shoulder. Molten spikes hammer into the joint and the shockwave races down my entire arm. Shrieks fill the air, and they’re coming from me, and I can’t stop them.

  Like a demon rising from Satan’s furnace, the healing hunger detonates through my veins, incinerating all thought and awareness.

  Gentle hands roll me over onto my back and a sharp, indrawn breath breaks through the ringing in my ears.

  “Aw, hell. Sonya… I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

  His voice guides me back from the brink of madness and I swallow back the sounds ripping from my chest. I force my eyes open to see Taz kneeling next to me, his face twisted in concern, his hands hovering over the jagged edges of bone poking through what used to be my shoulder. Blood is running from the slowly closing wound, but I don’t know how it can heal with my bones sticking out. A glance down at my other side reveals a spreading red stain, meaning my ribs are more than just cracked.

  A fresh wave of pain and burning hunger sends a shudder through my battered body.

  I try to talk, to tell Taz to help me up, but all that comes out are ragged sobs.

  He stands, swearing, then stalks away and stares out into the distance. A half moment later he returns and glowers down at me, a frown creasing his face. He presses his lips tight and shakes his head.

  I grit my teeth around another agonized groan and try to get up.

  But then he’s kneeling next to me and pushing me back down.

  “There’s no other way. I don’t know what else to do. Here, take this.”

  Taz slashes his wrist and jams his fingers into its ragged wound.

  No . . .

  He holds it to my mouth.

  I try to turn away. I don’t want his blood. Not his.

  But the hunger spikes at the sight of it dripping from his fingers and my fangs descend, aching, eager. Against my will, they search out and sink into the bloody gash.

  No. No.

  Oh, Nicolas . . . Please forgive me.

  My traitorous hands clutch his arm to my mouth and I draw deeply, again and again. But as Taz’s healing blood moves through me, so do his emotions—raw with anger and regret and… yearning.

  For me.

  The horror of it frees me from the hunger’s spell and I tear my mouth away.

  “NO! Get away from me! I don’t want…”

  I push myself to my feet and glare at him as he stands. All I feel now is his hellish rage, his violence threatening to explode from my skin.

  But there’s something else, something lurking beneath his anger. It’s pain, the pain of rejection and crushing disappointment, and as I look at him, I see it on his face.

  His expression darkens. Resentment and fury boil through his blood in me, erasing all else.

  Without saying a word, he reaches out and grabs my shoulder, then shoves the broken bones back inside.

  I scream and everything goes black.

  Blood. The smell of it, the taste of it, the feel of it. I dream of it filling my mouth—warm and thick with life—and I swallow and swallow. The musky scent of deer and coarse hair against my face seem so real, and I fight to stay in my dream world, to drown in red oblivion.

  But the electric tingle of healing tissue, racing throughout my body to concentrate in my shoulder, drags me back to harsh reality.

  I open my eyes and realize this isn’t a dream. My fangs are buried in the throat of a doe wrapped in my arms, her cooling body lying in the dirt beside mine. Taz is sitting cross-legged just beyond the deer, his chin resting on folded hands, watching me.

  It becomes harder to draw out the blood, and with a last few swallows, I release the carcass and shove it away. A second one flops its dead weight across my chest, and I gratefully accept the gift.

  When I finally sit up to wipe my mouth, I realize the pain in my shoulder is a ghost of its former self. Frowning, I crane my neck back to check it out.

  The sleeve has been cut from my T-shirt and the blood wiped off my skin. The injury is laced with a series of raised pink scars which are fading even as I watch. I move my arm, carefully at first, and though stiff and still sore, it seems to have regained most of its mobility. An examination of my ribs shows they are back in place as well, the skin almost completely healed.

  I push myself to my feet, still aching all over from cartwheeling down the hill, and glare at Taz.

  “I don’t know if I should thank you—or rip out your throat.”

  Taz grunts, his features twitching as he gets to his feet. The turmoil in his blood enrages me even further and I quickly slam an internal barricade into place against his unwanted emotions.

  But it’s not only his perpetual anger that I seek to block. His attraction to me is much deeper than I’d imagined, and I… I’m scared to death of my own response to it.

  I squeeze my throbbing shoulder, using its answering pain as an anchor.

  “Why did you attack me?”

  “Why did you run?”

  “I thought you were going to kill me.”

  “If I wanted you dead… you’d be dead.” He takes a deep breath, his gaze hard. “What I want are some answers.”

  My jaw clenches as he continues.

  “How do you know that Elder from the airport? And Alina, for that matter? Who are you?”

  I glance down to the canyon bottom below us, trying to decide how much to tell him. But I don’t trust anyone where Nicolas is concerned. I’m not even sure I trust Alina.

  “I met them… at a club in Colorado.”

  “Colorado.” He frowns and rubs his jaw. “I don’t get you. You feel old, like an Elder, but at the same time, you behave like a dumb newborn. And you still sleep.” He gestures at my shoulder. “And that…”

  “Yeah? It broke.” Shattered, actually.

  “It shouldn’t have. Not that easily.”

  “Well, being steamrolled by a two-hundred-pound pissed-off Indian might do that to a gal.”

  “Two-seventy. And you still shouldn’t be that fragile, especially if you’re an Elder, or even close to it. Unless…” His frown deepens. “Unless you really are a newborn.”

  I shrug, not willing to give him any more info than I have to.

  Taz gazes out into the distance, shaking his head, then looks back at me.

  “Gonna be daylight soon. We can finish our talk later.” Taz picks up the deer carcasses and quickly dismembers them, then flings the parts in different directions.

  Smart. Bloodless deer, whose only injuries are torn throats, are best not left lying around for hikers or rangers to find.

  However, I’m still hungry, and still hurt all over. I debate telling him to go on home without me so I can get in a hunt before sunrise. As for morning coma time—there are plenty of big oaks down near the canyon bottom. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept in a tree.

  “Come on,” he says.

  But instead of hiking up the hill, Ta
z breaks into a jog heading downslope.

  Staring at the natural way he navigates the sea of brush, I hesitate, then fall in behind him, hoping I’m not making another mistake with this big Chosen.

  CHAPTER 49

  We’re nearly at the bottom when Taz stops and scents the air.

  It’s so bizarre seeing him do something I’ve done thousands of times—it’s like watching a distorted image of myself tasting the wind, seeking wild prey. The odor of deer drifts up the canyon, and I’m once again amazed that they seem to be a regular part of his diet. According to Nicolas, Chosen are generally disgusted by the idea of feeding on animals.

  Taz goes still, then tips his head back and releases a blood-curdling coyote howl. The eerie call startles me, raising the hair all over my body—it sounds so real, I’m not surprised when he’s answered by a chorus of identical howls in the distance.

  He replies with a series of yips, then continues silently down the hill. Intrigued by his interchange with the coyotes, I follow him.

  When Nicolas and I visited the zoo in Colorado Springs, the wolves, as well as the bears and apes, reacted violently to our presence. Though the big cats exhibited curiosity more than anything else, I had the distinct impression that the other predators considered us to be deadly enemies.

  But it seems like Taz has a bond with these canines. I wonder if they help him hunt. The possibility boggles my mind.

  We reach the canyon bottom and Taz veers downstream, following a dry creek bed. He glances at me, then lowers into a half crouch and, placing his feet carefully, weaves through the brush and rocks with no sound. The scent of deer is stronger now, and I creep along behind him, mimicking his careful movements.

  I can’t deny the thrill of hunting with another hunter. Though Nicolas accompanied me several times in the Colorado forests, he always gave me the lead, allowing me the pleasure of finding and taking down the quarry. And he never joined in for the kill, nor the feeding afterward.

  Taz stops and motions me forward with a flick of his hand. Just up ahead is a small group of blacktails browsing along the streambed.