by L. A. Banks
“We are what we are,” she finally said, her tone now becoming amused. “Can’t take everything from a girl in one night.”
The leader nodded, stepped closer, and ran a thumb over her jugular. “Sorry to hear ’bout what happened to your man . . . but, as they say, it’s all good. You’re still here, got to live your life now. Right?”
“Yeah,” she repeated, her tone once again icy. “It’s all good.” Damali set down her beer hard on the bar. “Can’t sleep during the day anymore, though. You feel me?”
“I feel you . . .” he murmured, low and sexy. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Yeah,” she said. “And bring your friends. Miss Rivera already.” She let the truth dangle as bait, knowing they’d sense authenticity in what she’d said. But the truth cut her to the bone.
He hesitated, stared at her, confused, and then chuckled. “That’s five of us, you know.”
Damali cocked her head to the side and smiled. “And?”
“Damn, sis . . . aw’ight. That’s cool.”
“I was made by a master. What did you expect?”
The vampire before her shook his head. “I’d heard about mastermade second-level females, but I confess I didn’t know it was like that.”
“Follow me. Watch and learn . . . since this is your first time with a sister like me.” She didn’t even wait for his response as she strode through the crowd toward the off-limits section at the back of the club, elbowing people out of her way.
She could feel the five eager vamps behind her, knew they were intrigued and off-guard. Half of her questioned her own judgment; the other half of her just wanted to get it on. What was there to live for, really? If she went down, she’d go out swinging. If she lived, so be it. Either way, all these potential victims in the house got another night of reprieve.
As she passed club-goers, she glanced at the silver crosses some of them wore, and other religious objects embedded in their jewelry, disheartened by the fact that none of it would ward off an attack if the wearer of the object didn’t believe. Most didn’t.
The narrow hallway she’d entered that led to the back alley made her claustrophobic. It was too reminiscent of the corridors of Hell she and Carlos had battled in together. Everything reminded her of him, especially the thick, palpable desire emanating from the vampires that followed her in the dark.
She threw her weight against the heavy, metal door and was greeted by fresh air. The evening was unseasonably cool, and she welcomed the rush of breeze against her face. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back for a moment, preparing for the inevitable. A pair of chilly hands rested on her shoulders. Icy breath filled her ear.
“You have any preference about which one of us goes first?” a deep male voice intoned.
“No. Do you?” she murmured, shrugging out of his hold and bending over so she could reach the pant leg zipper, concealing her stashed dagger.
“Damn,” one of the henchmen whispered. “I don’t care, man. Just as long as I’m in the lineup.”
“Good,” she said, chuckling as she glanced up at the four weaker vamps hanging back in the shadows. A hard erection poked at her behind in a sultry grind. Hands were on her hips now, caressing them, stroking her backside, and making the beaded triangle sarong that was tied against them shake. “I’m not choosy about which one of you goes first, either.”
“Pull down your jeans, baby. We’ll work it out.”
“Okay. But first lemme show you what I’m working with,” she said with a dangerous half smile, peering up at him over her shoulder.
In one deft move, she unzipped her pant leg, snatched her dagger, spun, and plunged it into the chest of the vampire that had been on her ass. His eyes opened almost as wide as his mouth. His fangs exploded from his gums and he made a choking, gasping sound as he tried to speak. His face was still frozen in shock as his skin turned to ash and crumbled away to red glowing bones, which then disintegrated.
“Oh, shit! A fucking black widow!”
Damali wiped her blade on her thigh, ignoring the comment as the four remaining vamps took battle stances. Adrenaline shot through her as she watched their size bulk up, their once deep brown eyes turn fiery red, and their sensual smiles gave way to full-fanged snarls.
“Only two inches of fang, gentlemen? Rivera gave a girl six to eight, when provoked. Is this the best you can do?” She shook her head and studied her fingernails. “Guess there really is a difference between masters and wannabe lower levels. Size does really matter after all.”
She sensed them go airborne before she’d even looked up, and quickly dodged the first one’s grasp as the others came down in a circle around her. She moved counterclockwise to their movements, their snarls and growls making them sound like rabid pit bulls. Her senses heightened, she waited for them to attack again.
The one behind her was the first to strike—and was the first to get his throat slashed as she spun and kick boxed a second one away from her. As soon as the second fell back, another was on her, only to find her Isis blade deeply imbedded in his chest. Another pile of ash crumbled at her feet, and she sidestepped the burning, putrid heap, assessing the placement of the last two vamps in the alley.
They stared at her then glanced at each other.
“Later, bitch!” one of them said.
“Bring it now, punk,” she spat back.
“Later,” the other repeated.
Then they were gone.
“Can’t even get a good whup-ass on out here!” she screamed into the nothingness.
Pure frustration claimed her. Two of them had gotten away. “Damn!”
Club music and street traffic filtered into the dark alley. Damali kicked the Dumpsters as she passed them, hoping the vamps might have changed their minds and been lying in wait for her, or at least might have gone somewhere to bring back a fresh crew for her to mix it up with. What was wrong in the world? Couldn’t even get a good beat-down these days. Her hands were shaking, not from fear but from total rage. Anything left from Nuit’s line had her name on it—tattooed to its skull like a bull’s-eye. That was the least she could do. She felt hot moisture rise in her eyes, and she blinked it away. Fuck it. Whatever. If this was her life, so be it.
A sudden motion made her go still. She watched a male form approach her from the shadows, coming from the direction of the street just beyond the alley. She listened to its footfalls and clenched her dagger in her fist more tightly. Heavy. Too heavy. She sniffed the air. Sweat. It was human. She relaxed.
“Can’t get a good alley fight on? Is that what I heard you yelling, young lady?”
Detective Berkfield shook his head as he stepped closer to Damali, holding up his shield, his expression of confusion now clearly visible under the dim alley lights.
“What the hell is a female rap star doing out, alone, at night, with no security, in the freakin’ Jamaican badlands?” He glanced at her hand. “Clearly looking for a fight.”
“I’m a hip hop, spoken-word artist—not a rap star. And for your information, my songs are neo-soul.”
“Whatever,” the detective said, pocketing his badge. “If you’re looking for trouble, this is a place to find it. What’s the deal? What’re you doin’ in an alley by yourself, hon?”
Damali looked at the pudgy, balding white man in the rumpled raincoat. He was still huffing just from the mere exertion of walking fast. She let her breath out hard and bent to sheath her blade in her boot.
“An expensive, flashy entourage ain’t my style, and I only came out here for some air,” she grumbled. “Some punks thought because I’m a fairly successful hip hop artist, I was soft, okay? What’s it to you? They’re gone and I didn’t stab anybody. I was protecting myself and wouldn’t recognize them again if I saw ’em.”
She stood and folded her arms over her chest, defying him with her glare.
Berkfield nodded. “Okay, okay. But, lemme ask you this. Why is it that after you’ve been somewhere, there’s always these myst
erious piles of ash left in a goddamned alley, huh? What is it with you and Rivera?” He glanced at the ashy heaps and then stared at her harder.
“You really don’t want to know. Trust me.”
“Try me.” He held her gaze, thinking about the last contact Carlos had made with him—an envelope with all the Jamaican territory laid out . . . this club listed as a source of trouble. And there was something in her eyes, the unsaid, that made him realize she had to know that Rivera wasn’t the average Joe, Carlos’s drug-dealing history notwithstanding.
Locked in a standoff, for a moment all he could do was stare at her. This kid was so wrong when she’d just said that he wouldn’t want to know. It had been the very question that had kept him up at night for months. Yet he didn’t want to sound crazy, even to himself, by broaching the subject. He couldn’t explain any of what he’d witnessed to another living soul. The unfathomable possibility of what Carlos might be had forever changed his life, his perspective, and it was now possibly threatening his sanity. He’d almost been able to chalk it up to the trauma of being double-crossed by a trusted partner and nearly shot in the process. That had somehow been a comforting rationalization—until the Brazil thing had gone down. The carnage there just reminded him too much of the unsolved cases that would always haunt him.
The detective searched the young woman’s face with his eyes. He had to know if he’d seen what he’d seen in that alley in LA . . . had to know if there was something else on this planet that wasn’t human.
Berkfield practically held his breath as he continued to eye the angry young woman before him. If she were somehow Carlos’s woman, Rivera wouldn’t have been able to stay away from her. Every instinct in him as a cop and a man told him that much. That’s what he trusted.
“Look,” Berkfield finally said more gently. “I’m not after him for something he did . . . I’m just trying to get a bead on something that went down. It struck me as odd. That’s all I can say about it now, but when me and Rivera met in an alley, one time a while back, I saw some things . . . some shit I still can’t totally comprehend. He saved my ass that night and—”
“If he saved your ass, you’d have to ask him,” she said coolly.
“That’s why I came looking for you—to find him,” the detective said. There was no anger in his voice, just the urgent need to know. He could see her studying him, deciding, but every instinct he had as a cop told him she knew—had seen it—just like he had. “I don’t care about the Jamaican territory,” he said quickly, coming in close to her and holding her by both arms.
She appraised his hold with cool disdain, but didn’t move. All she did was look at his hands and then narrow her gaze at him. “Then why did you ask me about it, huh? Why’d you roll up on me in the street while I was out grabbing some lunch and start poking around in the subject? Now you’re sweatin’ me, following me and shit? You keep talking about the Jamai—”
“That was the last contact we had with him,” Berkfield said, his tone becoming more panicked as he watched her mentally retreat. But what the hell was he doing, telling an unknown risk about his info source—giving up his inside man like that? He either needed more stress counseling, or it was too late and he’d already lost his mind.
“Berkfield, I’m warning you. There are some things in life you just don’t wanna know.”
He quickly dropped his hands away from the young woman before him, now becoming terror-stricken as he stepped back. That’s exactly what Rivera had told him. What if she was one of those things like Rivera? He was alone in an alley with no backup. The reality sent a chill down his spine.
Berkfield crossed himself as she simply stared at him. “All I want to do is ask him a personal question so I can sleep at night.” His request came out as a plea. Heaven help him if he’d stumbled upon a female monster.
“Too late,” Damali said softly, looking off into the distance.
“And why’s that?” His voice caught in his throat as he glanced around. The darkness was now suffocating him, and he nearly pulled his gun on her, then remembered what Rivera had done to his partner—sent the bullet right back through the man’s chest.
She didn’t even look at the detective as she began walking away. “Because Carlos Rivera is dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
DAMALI RESTED her forehead on the steering wheel of her black Hummer. Berkfield’s questions, the constant monitoring from the team, and now she was being followed to clubs? It was bad enough that Berkfield had rolled up on her in the streets, and had opened a horrible wound, a gash that wouldn’t close—then poured Drano in it. But the look in the man’s eyes was the last straw. He was afraid of her.
She could feel moisture build beneath her shut lids, and she sniffed hard, tasting salty tears. Damn, damn, damn! It was not supposed to go down like this. Carlos had saved a cop. A cop. Had saved her entire team, and her. Not to mention, however many people by dusting Nuit. The man had even saved her from a lecherous old bastard back when she had been in foster care . . . he’d done so much good; why wouldn’t the light give a brother a break? It just wasn’t right.
Damali pushed herself off the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition. She reached for the radio and put on the loudest music she could find, 50 Cent worked, and she pulled away from the curb. Motion. She needed motion. She had to keep moving. What was done was done. Big Mike had told her about some of his experiences in ’Nam . . . that sometimes the good died young and that it always hurt when it was one of yours. Truth.
She wasn’t really paying attention to where she was going; she was just driving. It wasn’t about going back to the compound, back to the state pen. That’s the last thing she wanted to do and the last place she wanted to be—where there were eyes.
Eyes.
She was constantly dealing with eyes. Had to deal with eyes that held pity and worry and a hint of fear for her state of mind. Eyes were everywhere. People stared at her onstage, prying when she went certain places. Eyes wanted things from her, a little siphon of fame. Cop eyes had just stared at her like she was one of the monsters. Terror-filled eyes that didn’t know shit about who she was. Eyes that had judged her. If Berkfield only knew. He was probably standing in the safest spot on the planet—right next to a fully matured Neteru. A fucking huntress! Eyes of the teammates watched for signs of weakness, signs that she might break down. Eyes had kept careful watch to be sure she didn’t go to Carlos when he needed her . . . Carlos who had the most intense, wonderful, deep brown eyes before the vampires had turned him . . . but even after he had been turned they had been awesome. She would never forgive the vamps for taking him from her. She wanted blood.
Swallowing hard, Damali wiped angrily at the building moisture in her eyes. She needed someone who knew her before she became what she was—a rising star, the huntress, the savior of the freakin’ world! She needed friendly eyes. Laughing eyes. Tender eyes. Nonjudgmental eyes. Marlene’s eyes always saw too much. She needed girlfriend eyes. Eyes that didn’t see monsters around every corner.
A bitter sob threatened to break though she held it tightly in check.
Damali jerked her wheel swiftly to the left and stepped on the gas, veering away from the beach. She had to get out of there, get away from the old ’hood. What had she been thinking to come there? It was like walking over a grave.
She blew through the red light. She couldn’t stop, sit, wait. She’d done that all her life, and for what? The road was blurry anyway. Apartment buildings and houses all melted together as the tears began to form and threatened to slip down her cheeks. She would not cry. Never again. She’d done that all the way home from the Raise the Dead concert. Had done that for a month in her room alone. Tears did not bring back the dead, neither did prayers.
Finally sitting quietly at a curb, she allowed the bone-jarring music to stamp out all thoughts. She let the heavy bass line become her pulse. Right now she was so numb it was like the only one she had. Breathing deeply, she calmed her too-fast
heartbeat. What was death like, she wondered. Had to be better than this. Yeah, being a Neteru was no way to live.
Then she laughed. It was a hollow, brittle, sad sound that bounced off the walls inside the vehicle, bonding with the music. She should have let Carlos just fucking bite her. The light didn’t have shit to fight with, compared to the forces of darkness.
What did she have? A blade. A rag-tag team of old warriors and a few priests. All she was really was a sistah who hadn’t even had a chance to fully live. This was their squad? Pitiful. The light needed to take a walk down to Hell with her next time and really see what was in the dark, then maybe they’d send in some serious reinforcement—Special Forces, not some crazy Neteru. This was bullshit. Matter of fact, Hell was topside, didn’t they know? Could’ve just asked her, because she was living it.
Oh, God, you let the man die . . .
She covered her face with her hands and ignored the teenagers gathered on street corners and hanging on her girlfriends’ apartmentbuilding steps. Tinted windows were her only salvation while she struggled for composure as curious glances scoured her souped-up Hummer. She had to get it together. As soon as she stepped out, the neighborhood kids would make her—she was their star.
They’d rush her worse than vamps, seeking autographs, wanting her attention, just to touch a little bit of fame off her, to get close to what they considered a sister with serious bling bling . . . they’d want her to let the magic of new stardom run off her fingertips and onto their palms, hoping for instant discovery. They’d never understand that it just didn’t work that way, you had to earn it, and even then there was no guarantee. Fame was a crapshoot, and all that glittered wasn’t gold.
And she couldn’t go up to Inez’s joint all broke up, crying and wailing and sobbing her heart out about how her man had turned into something terrible. Another brittle chuckle escaped Damali’s lips and flushed her hands hot with sudden breath. Her best girlfriend. The only one who’d had her back in foster care, and she couldn’t even tell Inez about the worst heartbreak of her life.