Hell's Warrior

by Jaye Roycraft

  She ran for the bedroom, and he turned his attention to what lay beyond the window. He couldn’t see any officers yet, but he knew they were out there, making their little plans on how best to close the net.

  “Ten seconds, Red. Use it to pack food. There’s no room service where we’re going.” He heard her feet scamper to the kitchen at the rear of the flat. He picked up the bag and followed her, hoping there’d be a back staircase off the porch. There was. She shoveled canned and packaged goods from several shelves in the pantry into a large plastic bag. When it was full he took both her bags and carried them plus his own in his left hand, and with his right he took her hand.

  “No running. Everything as normal,” he whispered as they descended the staircase. “If we’re lucky, what I saw was just two trail cars, and not the whole team. If we’re unlucky, half of CPD is out there and the alley is blocked off.”

  At the bottom of the stairs he asked which car was hers.

  She pointed.

  It was an old red Mustang, the kind of car that drew the State Police like a magnet. It couldn’t be helped. They could take the Panther, but it was even hotter in the eyes of the law.

  Thor had left his car in the middle of the alley, completely obstructing the Mustang. He handed her the bags. “Start your car and get into the passenger seat. Leave the headlights off for now. I’ll be right back.”

  The Panther opened when he pressed his index finger to the keypad. Cade started the car, put it in reverse, and rolled it back twenty or so feet. Seconds later he was in the Mustang, easing it into the alley and turning it toward the mouth he hoped was clear. He could feel Red holding her breath beside him. Thankful for her silence, he slowed and buzzed the window down as they approached the street. Nothing stirred, and nothing that smacked of cop touched his senses. He turned onto the street, then ducked into the next alley going north. Cops might be sitting at street intersections, but it seemed less likely they’d be monitoring every alley in the neighborhood.

  He drove three more blocks north through alleys. A safe house that wasn’t far away was foremost on his mind, for it was only a matter of time before an APB would be issued on the Mustang. On the other hand, Cade needed to be sure they weren’t being tailed. He worked his way over to Clark Street and drove northwest on Clark until he hit the gauntlet of bars and restaurants just south of Wrigley Field. The bars were still going strong, and traffic was heavy. Cade did what he could to lose himself in the sea of headlights and taillights, passing when he could and turning off Clark to circle the block. He did more alley diving, then continued north on Clark, past Graceland Cemetery to Montrose.

  The safe house was in Uptown, not far away, and it was just what he needed. It was a house only he knew about, it was currently unoccupied, and there was a car in the garage. Uptown, once an historic theater district, had, like so many of Chicago’s neighborhoods, gone through a boom of rehab and gentrification in recent years. Pricey lofts, condos, row houses and apartments filled the streets bordering Magnolia Avenue, but his safe house was a single-family house, two stories and roomy, but without any hugely remarkable features.

  “Cade?”

  “What?”

  “Can I talk now?”

  “One question.”

  “Only one? Okay, where are we going?”

  He turned into an alley, stopped the car, and smiled. “We’re here. You should have saved your question a moment longer.”

  “I hate you. So, where are we?”

  “Someplace where we’ll be safe.”

  “I was safe back in my flat.”

  He turned off the car and pulled out the key. “No, you weren’t. Get out of the car.”

  She got out, and he retrieved their bags. Taking her hand, he led her into the backyard and up to the northeastern rear corner of the house. He lifted a rock, pulled out a waterproof bag, and slipped a set of keys into his hand. “Primitive, but effective. Come on.” Cade led her back to the alley, where he unlocked the garage, backed out the safe house car, then put the Mustang into the garage. With Red in tow, he parked the black Chevy on the street. It was a nondescript car, neither new nor a beater, with a current tag and even a Cubs decal stuck on the inside of the rear window. A moment later, they and their luggage, such as it was, were inside the house.

  He pulled Red into his arms. “Relax. We’re safe here.”

  But she shook as if she’d just been dropped into a black pit of ice, and he realized he hadn’t believed his words either.

  Chapter Nine

  Kaskaskia, Illinois Country

  January, 1763

  THE FORCE OF HIS thrusts thundered in his brain, echoed in his throat, and filled his mouth with saliva. The woman strained against him, her body as tight as sinew, and when it seemed she would break beneath his onslaught, she shuddered and drenched his cock with fluid so hot it nearly burned him. He drove into her one last time, hard, then pumped his own juice to mingle with hers. Her breath was warm and ragged against his neck, and her skin was both dewy with sweat and rough with gooseflesh from the winter chill of the cabin.

  Her breathing eased, and he used the vulnerability of her surrender to position a hard nipple between his tongue and eyetooth and pierce her flesh. She gave a quick cry, then was silent, and he rested for a moment like that, his fang and cock both still embedded in her, then slid the fang out and let her blood run into his mouth. He suckled her and gloried in her eaudevie, so much better than that of which his brothers partook. Their “water of life” was brandy given to them by the white man, a foul brown liquid that made them bite and slash at each other like cur pups. And like dogs, they’d tussle and roll in the dirt and cinders until they were blackened by soot and blood and feeling sorry for themselves.

  But his choice of eaudevie was sustaining, not damaging, and he drew on her until he was sated. He stopped short of killing her, though, for he was no destroyer of women. He’d vowed since the time of Le Rocher never to be like those who’d debauched Niano and the other women of his village.

  But nor was he Stormbird, destroyer of men. He was confident enough in his power to shed the regalia of a demon, so he wore buckskin now instead of headdresses and paint. He called himself Che Kincade, adding his father’s name to his shortened Inoca name, for though he was no longer of the mortal world, he had to live in it, and there was no sense in denying the white blood that would forever be as much his heritage as his Illinois blood.

  Besides, the French were his brothers now, as much as any man could be brother to a creature like himself. The depraved soldiers of Le Rocher were long gone and as far away as the Rock itself. He’d moved south with the French years ago, and his present neighbors in Kaskaskia on the Mississippi were traders and hunters that coexisted with his Illinois brethren peacefully.

  Peace. He rolled onto his back and inhaled the wood smoke from the fire the girl had started for him prior to his awakening. Perhaps peace was the problem. Certainly it was his red brothers’ problem, though he doubted they knew it. The fertile nose of land between the Mississippi and Kaskaskia River was a paradise of game, fertile soil, and mild weather, but in his opinion, living in a paradise gave mortals nothing but fat bellies, empty heads, and nothing in their hearts but lust for earthly pleasures.

  He turned his head and looked at the girl. She was curled in sleep and deep in the morass of blood loss. She’d been waiting for him when he’d emerged at dusk from the caveaux beneath his cabin. Was he any better? He thought not. His ambitions were no greater, his desires no less carnal. He had no enemies to slay and no thirst to slack save the blood and virginity of maidens. He let out a long breath, pulled on leather breeches, and stepped outside to stand on the galerie. He lifted his face to the sky and drew deeply of the night air. It was dry and cold, with more of an edge to it than either he or the mortals around him possessed.

  The limestone bl
uffs that bordered the far side of the river were as craggy as the faces of the Old Ones in the village. When the moonlight lit the bluffs, as it did now, the sallow rock glowed silver and gray, like the hoary hair of the eldest among the Old Ones. The bluffs reminded him of those near Le Rocher and the village of La Vantum. So much time had passed, but so little had truly changed in his life.

  Light embraced him from every side. Stars above burned with a fierce clarity, and to the north, the camp fires of the Indian village flickered amongst the trees. To the south, the lights of the French village dotted the bank of the river. And in the midst of all was himself, a part of and apart from all the others, a stagnant creature in a stagnant pond, with change no more hopeful in tomorrow than yesterday.

  For years war had raged in the east between the French and the whites who called themselves British, but it hadn’t come this far west. The news was that the war was going badly for the French, and some of the Illinois wailed and foretold of doom, for it was said that the British were domineering, land-hungry beasts who had no interest in the Indians. The French, in spite of Captain La Motte of Fort St. Louis, had always been like a father to the Indians, protecting them, trading with them, and bestowing gifts upon them. The French, like the Indians, were wanderers—hunting, trapping, trading and moving on—leaving only small footprints on the land. But Kincade had heard that the British were settlers who cared for none but themselves. They left great scars upon the land, bending it and anyone standing in their way to their collective will.

  Kincade did not join in the prophecies of doom. Any change that war brought would be a welcome alternative to this slow death.

  The wind shifted and brought with it the odor of fire and cooked meat from the Indian village. The smoke was fragrant, but the stench of the meat annoyed him and gave him an excuse to wander toward the French village. He was rewarded with the sight of a visitor covered in skins, a fur hat, and more hair than a buffalo’s chin.

  “You’re early, Jacques Roland. I didn’t expect to see any of the coureur du bois passing through here before spring.”

  “You insult me, old friend.” Yellow teeth were visible beneath a straggly mustache, proof that Jacques was smiling. “We are a hardier lot than you farmers.”

  Kincade smiled back, careful not to expose his fangs. He was hardly a farmer, but it was an old game, and a welcome one. “A tender lot this is, Jacques, and no lie. Tell me you’ve brought news that will stiffen the soft pricks around here.”

  “News I have. Grand news. It’s the reason I came early.”

  “Come. I have a fire.”

  Kincade was glad his cabin was in the French style, not an Indian hut. Instead of a fire on the floor with a hole in the roof, he had a stone fireplace, and while he had only one room, having no need of a kitchen, it was a large room. A partitioned cabinet at the rear served as a nighttime bed chamber for his carnal pleasures, and the caveaux beneath the house kept him safe from the sun during the day.

  Jacques Roland knelt before the fire while he continued on into the cabinet. He shook the girl until her eyes squinted open.

  “I have a guest. Get dressed, run to the village, and bring supper. He’s French, so no dog meat. Understand? Now hurry.”

  She nodded and was up and out the door before Jacques gave up the warmth of the fire for that of Kincade’s brandy. Kincade kept no food in the cabin, for he couldn’t abide the smell, but liquor was always on hand for traders like Jacques Roland. The brandy he took from the sideboard was first rate and worth its outrageous price, not the cheap swill sold to the Indians. But he didn’t hold profiteering against Jacques or those like him. The coureur du bois brought news, and that was more valuable than any of the goods they brought to trade. What did Kincade care if a few foolish mortals drank themselves to ruin?

  “One glass? Aren’t you joining me?”

  Kincade shook his head. “I have my own addictions, my friend. Tell me, what news?”

  Jacques reached into his pack and drew out a long, narrow article that gleamed in the firelight like scales on a snake. It was the longest war belt Kincade had ever seen. Made from hundreds of purple and white wampum beads, it depicted two groups of men opposing each other from either end of the belt.

  “The war’s not over yet, Kincade. We will not give up. Nor will the Indians in the east. Have you heard of the teachings of the prophets?”

  He ran his fingertips over the shell beads of the war belt. They were cold and smooth, polished by many hours of labor. He’d heard of the prophets. Their teachings grew from the belief that the Master of Life was displeased by the interaction between the Indians and the whites. Only by scorning alcohol and dependence on the whites could the Indians regain their former strength and dignity. Master of Life. No such god had ruled his life for over fifty years. Still, if it meant that the war would be extended, it was exciting news. “I’ve heard of them.”

  “Chiefs who have already capitulated to the British are disappearing. Those taking their places want to fight. Show this belt to your chiefs. I know you, Kincade. Your words are powerful. I’d swear you were a prophet yourself.”

  Kincade smiled. His words could be powerful, more so than Jacques could ever know. “I’ll take your message to the chiefs. If war comes to the Illinois, we will be ready.”

  Later that night, after Jacques Roland left and after he held council with the chiefs and elders in the village, Kincade retreated to the bed of buffalo robes in his caveaux. He’d seen eighty years on this land. It was more than a lifetime. He hadn’t forgotten the promise of the Manitou, so many years ago, but he felt he had not achieved his destiny. What pinnacle of power had he climbed to? What great deed could he claim? He had influence over his prey and individuals, but no power over many. The Illinois were few and weak. There was no greatness in ruling the helpless.

  Yet he’d stayed with the Illinois. He wasn’t sure why. They were a fading people, and even with all his strength, there was nothing he could do to prevent their slow demise. He wished with all his heart that the British would come—not just for what would happen to the Illinois, but what would happen to him. He needed a challenge, some reason to go on. If the British were true to the stories, they would provide prey and sport and perhaps a chance to sway the future.

  He would not forsake the Manitou. He still believed in the promise of the vision. Greatness would be his someday. As for the promised love, Kincade had given up on that part of the promise long ago. His kind was made to kill, not love.

  Chapter Ten

  Red’s place

  IT WASN’T THE FIRST time Thor had come to his senses in a whore’s parlor, and it wasn’t the first time he’d done so in bondage, but in all his sweet memories of the Sisterhood, he couldn’t recall an awakening as rude as this one. He wasn’t sure if it was the humiliation of being so easily subjugated by Cade or if it was the cop staring at him with dark eyes that could suck out life quicker than the La Brea Tar Pits.

  King Rat didn’t look any happier than Thor felt. “Where is he, Thor?”

  Thor had never liked cops, not even vamp cops. “How would I know? Am I under arrest?”

  “That’s usually what the handcuffs mean.”

  Smartass. “On what charge?”

  “Aiding and abetting, obstruction of justice, take your pick. You came here to meet Cade. What did he tell you?”

  “You can read me my rights. I’m not saying a word.”

  Rat turned to the uniformed officer next to him. “Is the wagon here yet?”

  “It just pulled up.”

  “Good. Take him downtown. And see that the pimp cruiser out back is ticketed and towed. It’s blocking the alley.”

  Thor strained against the cuffs. He was strong, but they had vamp cuffs on him—titanium alloy steel. “Motherfucker.”

  Rat didn’t blink. His eyes were cop-vamp hybri
ds, with all the I’ve-seen-and-heard-all-there-is attitude from both worlds. “You cooperate with me, I’ll cooperate with you.” He turned to his men. “Toss the whole flat. I want to know everything there is to know about whoever lives here.”

  Thor glanced around the room before the cops took him out. He wasn’t sure how Red was involved, but it was obvious she was another victim of whatever mess Cade had gotten himself into. If she survived to see her flat again, no doubt it would be as ransacked as if burglars had gone through it.

  He didn’t resist during the trip downtown or the booking process, but neither did he cow to Rat or any of the rest of the thugs in blue. He invoked Miranda and refused to talk, enjoying immensely the irritation that made Rat blink as though a gnat had flown into one of his eyes. Thor didn’t know anything, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have talked. Cade was still his master and doyen, and he wouldn’t betray that relationship.

  After a couple hours they let him go, handing him a smile on his way out along with a hefty parking ticket for the car. Bastards. He’d have to send someone with a couple hundred dollars and the title to the tow lot to retrieve the car—peanuts compared to what he’d have to spend to fix all the dings, scrapes and scratches he knew the car would then have.

  As he took a taxi back to the club he wondered why they’d let him go after trying their damnedest to inconvenience him. Except for the parking ticket, they hadn’t charged him with anything. Idiot. He was more valuable to the cops free and walking around. No doubt they assumed he knew more than he did. He’d have to be careful from now on.

  A tail was probably on him right now, and from this moment on, he expected that a permanent tail would shadow his every move.

  RED CIRCLED THE living room, fingering the fabric of every drape and piece of furniture as though she were the new mistress of some grand mansion. “So now that we’re safe and alone and don’t have cops chasing after us, tell me what happened back there.”