The All Encompassing: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 1)

by Daniels, May Ellis

I drop the Stricken's head on the floor.

  Greasebag’s human face vanishes and there’s a bloated red-green toad’s head staring up at me, mottled and covered in weeping, pestilent sores and spouting a pair of sharp, curving ram’s horns. I know this Stricken’s proper name. Stricken like to call themselves Lords and Overlords and Princes and whatever the fuck. Makes ‘em feel all special. But I tell you what: Stricken come in two flavors. Ugly shitbags and even uglier harder to kill shitbags. This one’s higher up the rank than we’ve seen in a while, but he’s still an ugly shitbag.

  I punch my claws through the Stricken’s back. Find its black heart. Tear it out and drop it on the table. It’s tough, giving up a feed when I’m so hungry. But it’s part of the job.

  “Eat,” I say to Nash.

  My friend looks at me, then his mangled arm, then the Stricken heart sitting in a pool of black blood on the table. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near that black blood, and I can’t say I blame him. His eyes are bulging out and ringed in dark circles and yeah, it’s safe to say he’s shaken up.

  Which is why he needs this feed.

  “That’s a fucking command,” I say.

  Nash snatches the heart and digs in while Sorry rushes over, douses the Stricken's frog-head in lighter fluid and flicks a Zippo to flame.

  Another suspicious fire in Chinatown tonight.

  Fuck it. I’d watch the whole city burn and say pass the hotdogs.

  If I had a choice.

  I light a smoke and hand it to Nash as the toad-head begins burning.

  Nash takes a long drag, then hits the blow, which is a good sign. The Stricken’s poison doesn’t seem too bad. Nash’ll live.

  Mia also looks shaken up. Another first.

  “I can’t…I’ve never…” she says, staring at the head burning blue-red with an unusual intensity. Flames are already licking their way up the wall.

  “What did you think?” I snarl. “They’re all gunna lay down and die cuz you give ‘em a fucking rub?”

  It’s an asshole thing to say at a time like this. Poor leadership.

  Well, fuck that too.

  I never asked to lead. Never wanted it, and still don’t. But I was born to it, like a fish to water.

  Its what and who I am.

  Something’s tugging at my throat. Tightening it. Been getting this feeling a lot recently. Like I can’t draw a full breath. Like something’s strangling me, slowly. It’s this fucking apartment. Must be. The walls pressing in. Breathing this Stricken’s foul scent. And this city, too. Full of pathetic, desperate Skins going about their greedy, earth-poisoning business and trying to accumulate as much useless shit as they can in their brief, senseless lives.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter to no one in particular.

  Mia gives me an odd look. Her nostrils flare.

  She’s scenting. Sniffing out hesitation. Uncertainty. Weakness.

  Our eyes meet, and for a moment it’s real close to becoming a stare down.

  I snarl and stroll by close enough to brush my shoulder against hers. Mia lowers her head and shifts slightly to the side, giving me space, as she should. Do I trust my crew with my life? Hell yeah. But apex predator alpha’s never die of old age. They die violent. Like they live. And the cold truth is it’s usually one of their own that scents weakness and throws down a challenge. So be it. Dying at the hands of one of my crew would be a blessing. Only the strong should lead a pack. And at least Mia, Nash or Sorry would make it quick.

  I’m through the door and out of the apartment in two long strides.

  Down the steps even faster.

  Night air hits my face and I draw a few long, almost gasping breaths.

  Maybe more shaken up than I’d like.

  I stomp my ride to life and settle into the leather seat as my crew joins me. Nash gives me a nod to let me know his arm’s not too hurt to ride. He’s healing, and thank fuck for that. At least the burning blood isn’t permanent.

  I give the Harley a long, aggressive throttle to show her who’s boss. Bitch sucks in big gulps of air, swallows them down and spits them out. Greedy for more. I pull from the curb, leaving a long trail of melted rubber. The stars overhead are low and bright and I make damn sure to appreciate them even though they don’t give a fuck about me or my pack or this shithole city or anything else, because if the old stories are true soon the stars will be hidden behind endless cloud and the moon will rise red and Stricken will fall from the sky like fiery rain.

  It’s all paranoid bullshit, of course. A myth born of fear.

  But if any of it’s true?

  That’s the end of us Purebloods.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LILY

  “TO NEW BEGINNINGS,” Trish says, raising her champaign flute. “To Seattle’s future Chief of Police.”

  I smile and tell her that’s a long way off. “And besides…I’m not sure I want anything but homicide.”

  Trish waves her fingers in casual dismissal. “Wasn’t talking about you, sweet. I was talking about me.”

  I lift my champaign flute to hers. Trish is nothing if not ambitious. I suppose she has to be: she was the first in her family to make it out of the low-rents and through high school, nevermind into law enforcement. Our crystal flutes tinkle together and shine in the candlelight as we congratulate one another for making it out of our beat-cop uniforms and into homicide. Almost.

  “It’s been quite a haul, Lily. Hours damn near broke me.”

  “Bullshit. You owned this year.”

  Trish smiles in a way that says she knows I’m right but is pleased to accept the flattery, then says, “You’re no slouch yourself.”

  I raise my glass again. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I’m so far behind I think I’m ahead.”

  “I get that.”

  “Yeah,” I say so softly I’m not even sure she can hear. “I know you do.”

  Trish studies the white-tuxedo-wearing piano player for a minute, then says, “So. Who’s courting you?”

  “Courting?”

  “Yeah. County? State? Feds?”

  The Feds. I’m sure they called Trish. FBI’s always fishing for talent. But they didn’t call me. There’s a reason for that I don’t want to let my mind wander into, so I sigh and set my champaign flute down, trying to think of a way to direct the conversation away from work.

  Only…instead of settling like it should the glass hovers an inch above the table after my hand lets go, then slowly descends. A chill races down my neck.

  “Something the matter?” Trish asks.

  So she didn’t see it. Does that mean it didn’t happen, or she missed it? I hear the concern in my friend’s voice but don’t look up. I don’t want her to see the fear in my eyes.

  It was the booze I drank tonight. The stress of seventy-two hour shifts fueled by Adderol and Vitamin Water.

  What else could it be?

  Champaign flutes don’t fucking hover.

  I close my eyes, trying to find a center by focusing on my surroundings: the leather seat under me, the smell of sautéed meats and rich sauces wafting from the restaurant kitchen. But it doesn’t help. My hands begin trembling, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Trish’s eyebrow flicker.

  Damn her. Girl notices everything.

  Recently I’ve been seeing…strange things. Like my champaign glass hovering in midair just then. And worse.

  Sometimes it happens while riding the bus. Staring out the window through rain-patterned glass. I’ll see a homeless guy hunched against a building, cradling a curving talon instead of a hand. Or a woman walking into a rain puddle, and instead of sinking she just…floats across the water. A black-feathered carrion bird, like a vulture but larger, swooping low overhead when I’m out jogging, and when I look up I swear I see ram’s horns sprouting from the bird’s head. And last week I saw this…creature standing outside the gates to a mansion homicide was called at to investigate a murder.

  It was pressed tight against a cedar hedge, so stil
l I almost didn’t see it.

  The creature was small, like a child. A little boy. But instead of a human head it had—I swear it—a mule’s head stripped of skin. Bulging white eyes and stretched muscles and blue-white sinew and blunt, yellowed teeth. It was wearing a cape of peacock feathers, glimmering blue-green…although when I picture it in my mind now I don’t think it was a cape.

  I think the feathers were sprouting from its back.

  Like wings.

  I saw it in my peripheral vision. Standing there. Staring at me with those awful lidless eyes.

  And when I turned to look at it directly it was gone.

  It’s always like that. I blink and the horrible visions vanish.

  Poof.

  Now, for the second time that day, I wonder if I’m going crazy.

  “Hun?” Trish asks, not trying to hide her concern.

  I give her a dismissive wave and run my finger along the edge of my champaign flute. There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  Finally Trish clears her throat and says, “Sleeping?”

  “Not much.”

  “Me either. I’ve just been so wound up, y’know. Thinking about everything.”

  Liar, I think. It takes more than lack of sleep to wind Trish up.

  But I appreciate the effort.

  Trish glances around the bar. We’re in the Fairmont Seattle lounge, a too-fancy joint full of bored looking high-class escorts and the douchebag rich guys who pay for them.

  “So he said he’s coming?” Trish asks, stirring the ice in her water glass. “Mr. On-Again-Off-Again? That’s the only reason I can imagine we’re sitting in this pretentious hellhole and not getting sweaty with some half-naked men on a booming dance floor.”

  I nod. “Connor. His name’s Connor.”

  “Mr. Connor Lerrick, yes, I remember his name,” Trish says, a bit too quickly, then she softens her voice. “So which is it now? On or off?”

  “Off.”

  “How long this time?”

  Good question. I try and remember. The last few months have stretched into one long blur punctuated by minor fits of what-the-fuck-am-doing-with-my-life uncertainty. That’s the difference between me and Trish: girlfriend was born knowing she wanted to police. Me? I saw a recruitment ad on TV. “Maybe three weeks?”

  “So the rich boy’s booty calling you. Got a free fifteen minutes in his schedule, figured he’d get caught up.”

  “I’m booty calling him.”

  Trish shakes her head and downs the last of her champaign. “Doubt it. A booty call by definition has no strings attached. You, girl? You’ve got so many strings you look like my mom’s yarn bag. More baggage than moving day.”

  “Your mom knits? Thought she’d be too busy nesting her spawn.”

  Trish smiles. She has an impeccable smile, made all the more lovely because it’s rare and genuine. “How late is he?” she says quietly.

  I glance at my watch. “Forty-five minutes.”

  Trish whistles a sigh through her teeth. “Dick.”

  She’s right. Connor is a dick. But I’m not exactly pleased to hear her say it. Three years of my life gone, then another eighteen months wasted in this I-love-you-I-hate-you limbo. That’s my entire twenties so far—gone.

  “I know you’re not in it for the money, so the dude must have a cock like this,” Trish laughs, holding her hands well far apart.

  “Nope. Like this,” I say, holding my hands up even wider.

  Trish grimaces, pours herself another glass. “How long are you planning on sitting pretty for this guy? Because I’m waiting until that bottle’s done, then I’m going to a club where the men don’t wear more make-up than me.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later we’re in a cab heading to a new club Trish wants to check out when I get a text from Connor that says to meet him at some place called the Wilds. I protested leaving the hotel lounge to go to the club. Trish insisted. It’s our ritual. She’s great like that. I can complain about how much I hate the clubs she drags me to, how although I’m only twenty-four the clubs make me feel old, everyone young and wide-eyed and…happy. Just fucking beaming at one another in that booze and drug-addled way clubbers have, plain happy to be out dancing after a long week of grinding it out.

  I remember when dancing was enough.

  But I know eventually I’ll settle into the scene and the booze and pills will kick and a song will strike the right emotional chord and next thing I know I’ll be grinning, inexplicably happy as well, and there’s always a young hottie or two and a secluded corner and let me tell you something: I regret nothing. I’ve seen too many corpses, both living and dead, to have regrets about how I choose to live my life.

  It’s been raining for days, but now I look out the cab window to see there’s a momentary break in the clouds. The streets are wet and gleaming, and there’s a hopeful anticipation in the air, like maybe this time the rain will actually stop long enough to reveal the morning sun. It’s early March, the air chill and damp. Everyone’s longing for spring. The sidewalks are busy even though it’s nearly one in the morning, kidless couples arm in arm, shiny club kids come in from the ‘burbs and flying high on anything they can get their hands on, stoop-backed drunks wandering in lazy circles with a palm up, underdressed working girls hugging themselves and strutting to tinted windows with a smile that says please don’t be a bad one.

  I crack the cab window and the night air rushes in, curling against my neck, winding my bangs across my forehead. I ask the cabbie if he knows where a bar called the Wilds is. He flashes me a grim look in the rear-view, then nods.

  I hold my phone up to silence Trish’s question.

  She crosses her arms and settles into her seat with a pout.

  It’s Wednesday night. The good people of Seattle are fast asleep. Safe in their beds. Dreaming about being free, or maybe dreaming about nothing since the dream of freedom is long gone. People are tired these days. Let them sleep.

  It’s better that way.

  I’m tired too. Only difference is I can’t sleep.

  I feel like I’m standing at the cusp of something I can’t quite name. Like there’s a cliff in front of me and I’m about to leap over, except for fuck’s sake I can’t remember if I’m wearing my parachute.

  I close my eyes and it hits me: a feeling of dread and blind anticipation as the cab rolls to stop in front of the bar Connor suggested.

  “What?” Trish says, looking around the grimy neighborhood. “Where the hell you taking me, Lil?”

  “There,” I say, pointing to a run-down bar with a sagging black and red awning guarded by a leather-jacket wearing meathead. There’s a long row of windows facing the street protected by a thick metal cage, but a few are smashed in and partially covered with sodden cardboard. The windows that aren’t shattered are filthy and steamed up so all you can see is an ugly orange-yellow glow from inside and a few edgeless shapes moving around.

  “The Wilds?” Trish says, reading the faded sign. “Come on, girl. That joint’s a dive. A fucking biker bar. Full of fat middle-aged assholes and skinny meth-head wannabes.”

  “You girl’s sure?” the cabbie says, eyeing the bar.

  I’m already opening the door.

  I step onto a sidewalk so splattered with trash and old gum and cigarette butts I can barely see the cement. We’re a few streets over from the shipping yards. The air smells of low tide and chicken rendering plants that run twenty-four seven. We were called to a body on this block a few weeks ago. Girl, as per usual. Got on her pimp’s bad side was the official decision. The charmer beat her to death with a tire iron, then left her body behind a dumpster. Classic. You find a body beside a dumpster there’s a ninety-nine percent chance it’s gunna be a woman. Like the killers drive the body around wondering what to do, then spot the dumpster and are all like, ‘Oh yeah, that’s perfect’.

  Dead men rarely get moved after they’re killed, unless its a pro hit and someone’s trying to cover shit up. But the wom
en?

  Dumpsters. Garbage. Waste.

  Used, abused and thrown out.

  Except this one? I dunno. Had her eyes burned out of her head. Like with a blow torch or something. When I brought it up with Detective Sandra Bernard, the lead homicide supervising my training, she said, “Yeah. Fucking pimp’s warning the competition. You can bet he did that before killing her. Maybe even had his girls witness it. You know? So they spread the word about what a badass he is?”

  And that was it. The murdered prostitute got about an hour of investigative time.

  The biker meathead at the door is glaring at me. I admit I’m not dressed for the hood: I’m wearing moderately pricey platforms and a knee-length cream skirt and a white sweater under the usual Northwest Coast Gore-Tex rain jacket. My fancy outfit.

  Anger rushes through me as I think about Connor standing me up at the Fairmont, then having me meet him at this shithole.

  Fuck him. Now I wish I’d stuck to jeans. Serves me right for dressing up for a dude.

  I look down the street. There’s a working girl pacing back and forth, knobby knees, unsteady, checking out the cars rolling by. She meets my eye, and suddenly I’m cold. Icy cold and shivering because in that moment the working girl’s face…changes.

  Into something from a nightmare.

  Her jaw elongates, then narrows into a fine, wickedly curving point that reaches nearly to her tits. It’s a stinger. Her eyes widen, then bulge and swell outward, swallowing the entire top half of her head. Her eyes are multi-planed and refractive. Like an insect’s. Her skin stretches back tight, then changes to pale yellow under the wan street light overhead. She doesn’t really have a mouth, but if she did I know she’d be smiling, and then there’s a hissing buzzing sound in my ears and the creature says to me, “What the fuck you looking at, bitch?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANIK

  I SLIP MY toes into the cold granite crack and twist, then look down past my feet into eight hundred feet of empty air. I’m halfway up Mt. Asgard, a magnificent granite spire looming over the glacier below like a stone sentinel.