“Kill him and the Fallen will feed on your heart,” Tamara says, standing and slipping the mask the man offers over her face. “Rodas is not a Pureblood.”
Her voice sounds odd through the mask.
Mechanical. Unnatural. Evil.
I want to offer her. More than I’ve wanted anything, ever. And the desire for this last offering pulls me from devotion, makes me want to remain in this stillborn world just long enough to bleed the woman named Tamara.
I close my eyes, release my attacker’s weapon and slump to the floor, suddenly tired.
So tired.
Choking, poisonous smoke filters into my blood, robbing me of the Night Stalker’s power.
My claws and fangs retract.
“He bleeds red,” the man who handed Tamara the mask says. “He’s a Pureblood. You fucked a Pureblood, you whore.”
“Rodas is his packmate,” Tamara screams, stepping between me and my attackers. “I fucked the First Fallen’s packmate.” Tamara laughs, a long, high-pitched laugh that sounds…insane. “You idiots! Do you now what this means? I have his seed. A direct link to…don’t you dare kill him, you fucking idiots!”
She’s proud. I hear it in her voice. The foul seductress.
“This one is a Risen?”
“Yes,” Tamara says. “The second most powerful of his newborn pack.”
“Stand down,” the masked man says. “We take him alive.”
He sounds disappointed.
So am I.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
AARON
“AARON LOOK OUT!” Mia yells, and I realize I’ve been standing frozen, watching my old bro Lonny go full animal in a fucking Stricken lair and not doing a thing about it.
The massive black panther hits me full in the chest, knocking me over and digging its claws into my shoulders, and it’s only when I feel those long claws pierce my skin that I realize just how off my game I am. Damn. I roll under the thing while its jaws snap inches from my ear, then hurl it into the apartment wall.
The panther’s not fully formed yet; its hindquarters are weak and still bending into shape, and I know if we have a hope of surviving we have to kill it before it’s fully born.
Nash and Mia and me circle around the creature while it spits and hisses.
“C’mon, Lonny,” I say, still hoping there’s a chance I can turn him and feeling like shit for feeding him that Stricken spawn’s heart. “It’s us, Lonny. Your crew. C’mon back.”
The panther stares at me, its eyes narrowed, then curls its lips over its fangs and roars.
Fuck it. This mess is on me.
I fake right, then step left and pounce on the half-formed panther’s broad shoulders, wrapping my arms around its neck and squeezing with everything I got. The cat rears back, lifting me up—for an instant I’m sure it’s going to fling me off—then a massive fist smashes into the thing’s head, knocking it to the side.
The cat hisses mewls as we crash to the floor.
I dig at its eyes and nose with my claws, then Sorry’s holding the panther by the neck and smashing its tender nose with his meaty fist. The cat screeches and mewls and shakes it head as Sorry beats the living shit out of it and I tell you what, this isn’t the first time I’m thankful I got a brother like Sorry watching my back.
There’s a blinding explosion and the acrid odor of gunpowder as Nash empties his Glock point-blank into the animal’s side. The cat screeches and flings Sorry off, then scampers a few feet away, bleeding and limping badly.
I stagger to my feet and face down the animal that was once Lonny.
The cat looks at me, opens its mouth and roars, but it sounds less sure of itself.
I widen my stance, clench my fists, stare the cat down and roar back.
The panther flinches. Just a little.
But it might be enough.
I pick my Glock up off the floor and unload into the wall just above the cat’s head. Pop-pop-pop. He flinches, paces in a half circle.
“Fuck off now, Lonny,” I say, more to myself than the panther. “Fuck off so I don’t have to kill you.”
The panther’s bleeding bad. The sight of all that black blood spread across the room should have me mad with hunger and bloodlust. But it doesn’t. Not this time. And as I stand there staring down my old friend I wonder: is this weakness? Is this hesitation? And then, way back in my mind, the seed of doubt I’ve been trying to ignore gets larger. More insistent. Forms into a complete thought. And that thought is: you’re too weak to be a Pureblood alpha.
The Glock shakes in my unsteady hand. Sweat streams down my face as I scream, “Fuck off now Lonny! Get out of here! Go!” I wave my arms in the air, trying to frighten him off like he’s a little house cat and not a black blooded Stricken, my ancient rival and prey.
The cat takes a smooth sideways half-step. Wavers. Stares at me. He’s waiting for me to pounce. So is my crew.
The room’s quiet except for a slight scratching sound coming from within the vinyl body bags.
“Finish him, Prez,” Nash growls.
Fuck you, I think, but what I say is: “Give him a chance, Nash. This isn’t his fault. It doesn’t have to be like that.”
“It does, brother,” Sorry says, his voice quiet and deadly. “That’s exactly how it has to be.”
The panther’s still bulking up. Biding his time until he’s whole. And worse, he’s healing. Right before my eyes. Faster than I thought possible the cat’s bullet wounds are closing up. His hind legs are growing thick with muscle, and the fucker just seems to get bigger—
My crew steps beside me. Mia hisses, her snake arms slithering across the floor toward the panther.
The cat roars again, but it looks uncertain.
“I’m fucking sorry about this, Lonny,” Sorry says. “I mean I really am. You have to believe me.”
The cat paces back and forth in the corner of the apartment as we close in. It’s three to one.
Then the cat looks at me. Its face is a ragged and bloody mess but its eye has already healed over. It’s mad with pain and fear and the scent of our blood, but I see something else in its eyes.
Something I recognize.
The cat wants freedom. That’s all. Just freedom to roam.
“Stand down,” I say to my crew.
“What?” Nash says, his voice a hideous barking shout. “What do you mean—”
“I said stand down.”
The panther hisses and scratches at the wooden floorboards.
“We can’t do that, bro,” Sorry says, stepping forward, his jaw lengthening as he summons his wolf. “This is natural law. Pureblood over Stricken. Always and forever.”
“I said stand the fuck down!” I scream, gripping my brother’s shoulder. “Let him go! This isn’t on him. It’s on me.”
“No Stricken deserves mercy, Prez,” Nash says. “If Lonny could talk he’d beg you to kill him for what he’s become. You know it’s true.”
“Yeah?” I say, holstering my Glock. “Says you?”
Sorry and Nash share a look that makes my blood cool, but they both keep their mouths shut. For now.
They don’t like how I lead? Well fuck them. The upstart assholes. I’ve got more pressing matters—
The panther fakes a charge, looses a quick, high-pitched shriek, steps left and leaps for the window.
There’s a shattering crash and then it’s gone as fast as a bad dream.
I race over and peer down the street. We’re on the third floor, nearly thirty feet up. The rain’s driving down and a low mist has settled between the shithole buildings.
My heart’s pounding in my ears.
I think I fucked up. I think I fucked up bad.
“Vanished,” Sorry says, shaking his head as he stands beside me.
Freed, I think.
I inch away from my brother, taking him out of my blind spot. He flashes me an odd glance.
Yeah. I fucked up.
“Christ in shit,” Mia says, walking to me.
“The kitty scratched you good.”
My breathing slows, and as I relax the pain of my wounds hits me. I’ve got a set of four deep scratches straight across the tatty on my chest. It’s my favorite tat, a spruce forest blanketed in snow lit by a full moon. Full moons don’t mean shit to Purebloods but it’s a pretty story.
“I’m having one fuck of a bad week,” I say to no one in particular. “Anyone else think it’s time for a win?”
“I think you did the right thing,” Mia says, loud enough for Nash and Sorry to hear.
“Yeah? I’m glad someone does.”
There’s a long silence. Everyone’s thinking about what just happened. Letting a Stricken live is one of those things a Pureblood alpha just does not do. Yet I did it. I acted on instinct, and I won’t stand around second-guessing myself now.
“So, Prez,” Nash says, smacking me on the back, “Lesson learned. Do not eat infant Stricken hearts spawned from the bellies of murdered Skin women.”
Sorry chuckles, but while I appreciate Nash trying to lighten the mood with his twisted humor I can’t find a reason to laugh. The Stricken are our only source of food. If the Stricken have found a way to breed, and if we can’t consume this new generation, or worse, if this new generation can feed on us—
“We’re fucked,” Mia says softly. She can’t read my mind, but she knows me well enough to know what the look on my face means. “What’s happening, Aaron? What’s going on?”
“Fuck if I know,” I say, looking at the bodies lined up on the floor and feeling like I’m walking across a razor edge. “But I wish I did.”
I hate this feeling of not knowing. Of being caught off guard. We got lucky with Lonny and the panther. It was still weak from the transformation. But next time?
Luck’s a fickle bitch on which to place one’s life.
I reload my Glock, stalling, trying to think of a convincing next move. I’ve been playing at this predator alpha game, thinking I have it all figured out. But maybe I don’t. Maybe shit’s just been easy for the last while. Maybe that Stricken bitch was right. I’ve become complacent. Sloppy. Weak.
Maybe this is war, and I’m beginning to realize I’m no war president.
I grind my teeth together, furious at myself, thinking of Lonny.
Crazy motherfucker.
I’ll miss him.
“There could be hundreds of these lairs,” Mia says. “Thousands. Around the globe. And who knows what kind of little freaks they’re breeding.”
I nod, then a line of graffiti sprawled on the far wall catches my attention. All Encompassing, it says.
That’s it. Two words
All Encompassing.
More whacked-out cult mumbo-jumbo. But the words sound familiar. Like a song heard long ago you can only remember the chorus to.
All Encompassing.
Then it hits me. Something I saw downstairs when we first came into the building but only recognized now.
“Holy fucking hell,” I whisper, racing down the stairs to the weird-ass alter. There, tacked on the wall behind the broken idols and candles, is her picture.
Sparkles. Lily the Cop.
The photo’s old and faded, the bottom half torn off, but I can tell Lily’s younger than she is now. Maybe mid teens. She’s standing on a street in a shit neighborhood in Seattle. Not looking at the camera. Her face is in profile. She isn’t smiling. She’s wearing torn and faded bluejeans and a tight black blouse and there’s an army surplus backpack on the pavement at her feet. Her hair’s much shorter than it is now, and her ear’s pierced with several safety pins. She’s holding her hands clasped together at her waist, and her fingernails are rimed with dirt.
Lily was living out of that army surplus backpack.
Sparkles, Little Miss Perfect, was a fucking street kid.
“Holy fucking hell,” I say again, my breath tight and my blood racing. I feel suddenly…dizzy, like I’m standing at the edge of a very deep pit and about to lose my balance.
I take Lily’s photo off the wall and hand it to Sorry when he stalks up behind me.
“Shit,” he says, looking between me and Mia.
“What?” Mia asks.
“It’s the Skin girl from the Wilds,” I say. “The night we got shot up. She was there. The cult whacko’s weren’t aiming for me. Never were. They wanted her dead.”
“What’s she to them? Another body to breed in?”
“Maybe,” I say, remembering Lily’s odd, overpowering scent. How I was drawn to it. Like a bee to honey.
“But that’s not what you think, is it, Aaron?” Mia says. “You think she’s a Stricken. Or something else altogether. Something…different.”
I tuck the picture into my back pocket and look at the altar. Several more photos are tacked up on the wall. All girls, all about the same age. “I think they’re looking for someone. Someone they need. I think this altar is a kind of list. Somehow Lily’s on that list. And if the cult pricks want her, we can’t let them have her.”
I turn and face my crew. “Here’s what’s gunna happen. Nash and Mia: you hang out across the street. Keep an eye on the lair. Anything enters you call me. Do not engage until we’re all here. Sorry rides with me.”
“Nope, lover-boy,” Mia says. “I’m the only one who hasn’t met the infamous Skin bitch that whipped a Pureblood Prez in a single night. I’m coming with you.”
I sigh. Sorry flashes me a broad I-told-you-so grin. He warned me about hooking up with Mia a long time ago.
Said jilted bitches have long memories.
Especially hungry, horny jilted snake bitches.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LILY
I FOUGHT THEM as best I could.
It wasn’t enough.
I kicked and squirmed while my abductors loaded me into some kind of box, so small my head was pressed down between my knees. The fetal position. They carried me down the stairs from my apartment and threw the box I was stuffed inside into the back of what can only be a van. I heard traffic noises and the sound of the van’s engine and thumping rear suspension as we drove through the city. I tried to keep track of the left and right turns, listened for any recognizable sounds, hoping I might discover where we were going.
Then the van screeched to a stop and I heard something unmistakeable.
A ship’s horn, long and mournful.
Now the van door slides open. I scream, hoping someone on the dock will hear me. But the duct tape strapped across my mouth and the heavy vinyl bag I’m entombed in block out any sound. I’ve decided I know what kind of bag I’m in. It’s a body-bag, the kind cops and the military use to transport corpses.
The bag’s zipper opens a fraction and a rush of salty ocean air flows inside the bag. I breathe deep through my nose, trying to stay calm. Trying to focus on not losing my shit completely. Panic’s building in me, a raw, animal instinct.
I can’t afford to panic.
If I do I’ll hyperventilate and maybe suffocate to death.
I’m carried down a dock. Boots thud loud against wooden planks. Water laps against pilings. A seagull caws. These sounds—the only things anchoring me to the world outside this horrible bag—they’re like a lifeline linking me to sanity and hope.
They’re all I have.
Then I’m in a boat. The men lift the body-bag out of the box and carry me down a narrow flight of stairs, narrow because I brush against handrails on both sides as my abductors carry me down.
A dull clanking sound. A whirring noise. The reek of gasoline.
They’re taking me into the dark belly of this ship.
I’m dropped on the ground so hard it knocks the wind out of me. The zipper is undone all the way. I already hate that sound, wonder if I survive this it will I need trauma counseling every time I hear a zipper? Will I wear only button-fly jeans? The thought almost makes me smile, which is difficult to do considering the duct tape strapped across my mouth.
That I’m smiling in a situation like this makes me won
der if I’ve lost it already, my mind broken in terror.
We like to tell ourselves if we stay calm we’ll be all right. That our wits and courage will get us out. That we’re strong. We’re survivors. We’re taught never to lose hope. But I wonder if those girls with their eyes burned out lost hope? And did it make a difference, in the end, whether they had hope or not?
No, I don’t think it did.
A rush of cool air chills my naked, sweaty skin. I’m lifted out of the body bag. Laid on a cold metal floor floor. The humming whirring machine sounds are louder and the smells of gasoline and grease are so overpowering they make me want to vomit.
I must be in the ship’s engine room, or close to it.
A boot digs hard into my ribs.
“She’s good?” a man’s voice says. No accent. Maybe educated. That’s all I can guess.
“Good,” says another voice, deep, also no accent, rougher-sounding.
I chronicle these details, burning them into my mind. In my head I’m already at the police station, giving a description of events to a detective.
In my head I’ve already lived through this.
I’m already free.
Maybe this is how we survive. Not by clinging to some fragile hope or misguided belief in our own strength, but simply by ignoring the plain, awful truth of our suffering.
Fantasizing it away.
There’s a metallic rattle close by my ear. Something cold presses against my wrist, then a sharp click followed by another click.
Handcuffs.
Strong, gloved hands grip under my arms, drag me across the floor and lean me upright. Then another sharp click.
I’m being chained to a metal pipe. The pipe is moist with condensation.
“She’s the one?” the rougher voice asks.
There’s a pause, then the sound of footsteps approaching me. I feel him there, my abductor, hovering over me, inspecting me. If he removes the duct tape over my mouth and eyes I don’t know what I’ll do.
Scream at him? Tell him to go fuck himself?
Or beg and plead for my life?
The All Encompassing: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 1) Page 24