Bitten to Death

by Jennifer Rardin

They were too hard to kill in their present form, so she’d probably just wait until they turned and then have one of her lackeys do them from a distance. It would be bad news for the Trust if the wolf got back to his pack and told his story. And the bear—well, he’d have his own loose-knit league who’d be enraged at his tale. Wars had started over less.

  My job wasn’t to prevent the conflict. That problem was for people higher up the political chain than me. I only had to save a couple of lives. For once. Which meant . . . one more round with the injured, pissed-off Weres. Thanks a lot, boss.

  But I smiled inside. I so liked this part of him. Even a lot of humans I knew wouldn’t have given a second thought to the welfare of those wounded moon-changers. But he’d made it part of our mission to ensure their survival.

  “Will you be okay?” I asked Dave, knowing the question would piss him off. As expected, he launched out of his chair and grabbed his crossbow. “Aw, for chrissake, it’s just a scratch! I’ll be fine!”

  I smirked. It had been a mean move. But I was sick of seeing him mope. Better to have him hurt and yelling than feeling crappy and keeping mum.

  As Dave went to the bathroom to wash up, Vayl took me aside. “When I return, we need to talk.”

  Though he kept his voice low, I was sure Marcon could overhear us. So it seemed strange that he’d even bring up a private conversation for the Trust vamp to get curious about. “Yeah?” I said.

  “I did not realize Disa was alive, much less living here still. Otherwise I would have told you of our history much sooner.”

  “Ah.” Suddenly that word, “history,” meant so much more than boring stories involving stuffy wig-wearing lawyer types.

  “I am sure it is nothing to be concerned about, now that I have you, my avhar.” Vayl’s eyes searched my face, almost like he was memorizing it.

  But I couldn’t stifle the creeping sense of dread I felt as we went our separate ways. Marcon gave me directions that I didn’t need and led the guys away. I kept looking over my shoulder until they were out of sight. And then, realizing a divided focus could be the death of me, I shoved my concern to one corner of my mind and put all my effort into the job at hand.

  I went back out to the courtyard. But I didn’t try the vine-framed door; despite the villa’s covered windows, I still suspected someone might see me from the inside. Instead I left through the open gate. Rather than hiking up the hill to where our SUV was parked, I followed the wall that circled the villa to the back. It stopped at the garage, which hadn’t even existed in Vayl’s time. When he’d drawn the layout of the place for us to memorize, he’d left it out completely, instead penciling in a one-room stone building he called the Gardener’s Hut. He’d told us in his time it had been used as a sort of halfway house for newly recruited vampires.

  “You had to keep them at such a distance?” Dave had asked incredulously. “What, were you afraid they were going to rise a half hour before everybody else, steal all the silver, and run off with the kitchen help?”

  Vayl’s chuckle, which usually sounded more like a guy choking on his porterhouse, flew round and full from his upturned lips. “You keep forgetting what a suspicious old wretch Hamon Eryx is. While he knows the Trust must grow if it is to survive, he still believes every other Trust is trying to infiltrate him and learn all his secrets, thereby stealing everything he has worked so hard to build.”

  “So why doesn’t he just turn people?” Dave asked. When I gaped at him, he raised his hands. “Not that I’m advocating the practice. God knows—” He shook his head at me. “No, I’d never be okay with that, Jaz.”

  My heart, which had twisted painfully at his question, relaxed. His wife had been turned before showing up at my back door, begging entry, planning violence. I’d ended Jessie’s undeath, because I’d made her that promise long before either of us dreamed our fates could actually unwind that way. I nodded at Dave, grateful his forgiveness still held true.

  He went on. “All I’m saying is, looking at it from Eryx’s perspective, he’d have to think he’d get a more loyal brand of member that way.”

  “A valid view,” Vayl replied. “But no one in the Trust is allowed to turn another. In fact, it is an offense punishable by execution.”

  That conversation seemed even more significant as I scoped out the back of the garage. I whispered to myself, “They kill their vamps for turning humans. Wonder what they do to humans for turning Weres loose?” I pulled Grief. “What do you say we don’t find out?”

  Outside the garage, on a wide concrete pad that stretched from the building to the lane, sat the vehicles Tarasios had moved. A BMW 523i that made my mouth water. A Porsche Boxster two seater that caused me to think things my Corvette would’ve considered adulterous. And a blue Fiat Scudo minibus that I could only assume the Trust used for field trips. It seated nine and looked like it had one of those tootie-toot horns that warn you all the passengers carry disposable cameras and close their shoes with Velcro straps.

  The garage was windowless and the only other entrances were the shut and locked bay doors. So far the only close presence I’d detected was that of the werewolf inside. Since the locks were somewhat intricate, requiring time and possibly noise to defeat, I decided to check out the wagon house first. If I could free the bear more easily, so much the better for all of us.

  The wagon house, surrounded on three sides by a confused mass of herbage that included chestnut trees and wild primroses, was a square, tile-roofed echo of the villa. To my relief, it held no vampires. All I felt was the prickling at the base of my brain that told me whatever lurked behind its extra-wide, barnlike door had a two-edged psyche, one of which was a beast.

  This is just stupid, I told myself as I holstered Grief and pulled my coral necklace out from beneath my shirt. That damn bear is probably waiting right inside, licking his chops at the thought of a little grain-fed American for his midnight snack.

  The shark’s tooth at the necklace’s center fit perfectly into the padlock that held the sliding door shut. I could almost see the tooth melding to the form of the key the lock required. You know, Bergman may be too good. Sometimes it would be nice if I couldn’t get into places. Like this one.

  The padlock clicked open. A voice sounding oddly like South Park’s Cartman echoed through my quivering brain. Goddammit!

  Grief came back to my hand as if attached by a spring. I switched to crossbow mode for silence. Keeping my shoulder to the outer wall, I braced my foot against the door’s edge and shoved. It slid a couple of feet to the left, opening a twenty-foot-tall crack that felt like a hole in the universe.

  Nothing happened.

  Is he in there waiting for me? Or is he unconscious? Why doesn’t Vayl ever give me the easy jobs? I swear, if one of us was ever forced to get a massage, or watch the whole first season of Futurama for Uncle Sam’s sake—he’d assign that one to himself!

  “Would you get the hell home already?” I snapped. “I don’t have all night!”

  “Okay, okay, sorry if I thought maybe you’d come to kill me.” I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when the werebear, now fully transformed to a towering hulk of humanity, came shuffling out of the barn with his hands raised. Well, one hand. The other was covering his manly parts, since the vamps hadn’t seen fit to throw his clothes into captivity with him.

  Though thick hair covered his chest, the pink puckered marks where Dave and I had wounded him practically glowed. And he’d been bitten so many times on the neck he looked like he was wearing a red chain.

  “Do you remember anything that happened before you were brought here?” I asked.

  He shook his head, his long brown curls bouncing like fishing pole bobbers as he moved. “Not much. I was flirting with a girl in the bar at the Hotel Patra. And then . . . nothing.”

  “What did the girl look like?”

  “Lovely, clear skin with eyes like honey. Petite. Sweet. I didn’t like her hair so well. But”—he shrugged—“it was worth all the res
t.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “She had the, what do you call them?” He scrunched his free hand into his own tresses until a hunk of it fit tight into his fist.

  “Dreadlocks?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Aha! So Meryl had been a key player in the Were-trapping scheme. “Okay,” I said. “Now get going. I don’t know how long they’ll be busy, but someone’s coming out here soon and it won’t be to hand you a pair of jeans.”

  “But I must thank you. And to know your name, for the prayers of blessing.”

  “You’re welcome. My name is Jasmine Parks.” I did mean to say Lucille Robinson. But she’s plenty blessed.

  “Thank you, Jasmine Parks. My name is Kozma. And may Rhiaak bless you.”

  A sudden, loud boom from the vicinity of the garage made us both jump.

  “Shit! The wolf!”

  “We must save him!”

  I put my hand on Kozma’s chest as he tried to rush past me. Even from here I could tell. “He’s dead. And soon the vamp who shot him will be coming after you. Can you run?”

  “Not far. I am still weak from the wounds.”

  “O-kay. Follow me.” The walk from the wagon house to the lane only took half a minute. But it was all uphill, and Kozma was sucking air after the first five steps.

  I whispered, “He’s coming. I can feel him. Too far away to hear us. Too close to dodge. Hide in the trees.” I handed Kozma the keys to the Range Rover as I described where it was parked. “It’s unlocked, and you’ll find a change of clothes in the back. When you see it’s clear, get your ass to town.”

  “How can I ever repay you?” he asked as he took the chain and looped it around his finger.

  “Make sure the rental agency sends the vehicle back tomorrow. And look, I know your league is going to be pissed when you tell them what happened. Just keep them away from this Trust for at least a week, okay? By then our business with them will be finished and you can do anything you like with them.”

  From the light in his eye I figured whatever he had in mind wouldn’t be pleasant. But, remembering the shot we’d just heard and the sudden absence of the wolf’s imprint, I didn’t really care. “Fair enough,” he said.

  I met Rastus halfway down the hill. He didn’t even bother to hide the Makarov he held, which told me two things. The son of a bitch could pick his handguns. And I’d just hopped on a thin, shaky wire. Was it a bad thing that the head-banging, mosh-pit groupie in me craved a showdown? Maybe. It’s not such a big deal when your only weapon is an emery board and your greatest skill is accessorizing. But given time and a little luck I could take out a small village if I freed that wild child inside me. And the fact that I could feel her clawing so close to the surface? Not a good sign.

  On my back I carried the black bag holding my miniature armory plus Dave’s pack. My left hand gripped the handle to my ratty old traveling trunk; my right held Vayl’s suitcase minus an outfit for Kozma. I tightened my fists until it hurt. Maybe the pain would help me think straight.

  “What’s all this?” asked Rastus, waving his gun at me as if he thought I might be concealing several more Special Ops types in Vayl’s Samsonite. His voice had roughened since its encounter with my sverhamin’s sword. And I knew, from the look in his eye, he’d love to use me for payback. I hoped I wasn’t about to give him an excuse.

  I shoved my trunk at him so hard he either had to grab it or be trampled. “What’s it look like?” I demanded. “Disa said you were coming twenty minutes ago. Where’ve you been?”

  “I . . .” He gestured back toward the garage, realized that was a story he shouldn’t tell. His eyes strayed toward the wagon house. “I have some—”

  “Here.” I unloaded Dave’s pack, hung it over that waving arm, making it sag enough that if the Makarov went off it would take a chunk of my thigh with it. “You know where our suite is, right?”

  “I’m kind of busy . . .”

  I dumped Vayl’s suitcase at Rastus’s feet. Then I got in his face, started poking him in the chest. “You vamps think you’re so special, don’t you? Think you’re better than everyone else on the planet! Too good to do dishes or take out the trash or carry luggage for mere humans!” I gave him a push that nearly toppled him over. “Well, you and your Trust can go fuck yourselves for all I care!”

  I stomped into the courtyard, deposited myself in a chair, and ignored him as he spent thirty seconds trying to figure out what to do with his gun, finally decided it would be okay in the pocket of his coat, and then spent another minute trying to load up the stuff I’d dumped on him.

  I waited for him to disappear inside the villa, then I checked out the keys I’d lifted from his jacket pocket. Hey, it wasn’t in my nature to leave myself without wheels.

  While I listened to the music of the Range Rover rolling Kozma away from imminent danger, I noted that one set of keys belonged to the minibus I’d seen parked just outside the garage. A couple looked like house keys. One might’ve been to a lockbox or safe. And also hanging from the chain was a remote opener for the garage door.

  Looking back to make sure Rastus had committed himself to his delivery job, I went out the gate and thumbed the remote just enough to allow myself room to crouch down and get a good view of the floor.

  Like Kozma, the wolf had changed. He sprawled in a pool of his own blood as if he meant to swim in it. His lips were still drawn back in a snarl, his fighter’s eyes wide and angry.

  Wait a second. Shouldn’t they be empty? Is this sucker still alive? Can’t be. I don’t feel a presence . . . do I?

  I ducked under the door, closed it, and moved to his side. While I hunted for a pulse I reached out with that extra sense Vayl had been nurturing since day one. There it was, the smell of werewolf, so faint it barely penetrated the vampire din coming from the mansion. And the pulse—also hardly existent.

  “Aw, geez. Now what am I gonna do with you?” I whispered.

  I knew enough about Weres to kill them, and that was about it. So the bullet Rastus had used must’ve been silver. Even if it had gone completely through his body, it had probably left enough residue to cause a fatal poisoning. But Rastus had played it lazy with that single shot. If you want to make sure a Were is dead, you have to cut off his head. Because he’s capable of sending himself into a trance while he tries like hell to heal. Which is what this guy seemed to have done. I supposed that meant he had a chance. If we had a place to stow him. If we could find somebody to draw out the silver and pump in a buttload of antidote.

  I stared around the garage, searching for inspiration.

  A workbench stretched across the far wall. Shelves full of paint, oil, fertilizer, and whatnot filled both sides of the place. A garbage can full of shovels and rakes took up one corner. Other than that—only blood.

  “He must’ve lost half his supply already,” I whispered hopelessly. I was so bummed the Were was going to die I didn’t even blink when a face, that face, appeared again, swimming in his blood. “Great. Just when I think I’m pulling myself out of that pit of blackouts and nightmares that came after—after the Loss. I finally start pulling myself out of that hell and what happens? I go stark raving mad.”

  “I love the mad,” said the face with an anguished smile. “They are so much more interesting than the sane.”

  “Jesus Christ, could you at least not talk to me while I’m losing my mind?”

  The face twisted. “That name is anathema to me. And I am already in enough pain. Can we at least agree that you will abstain from holy references and I will treat you as if you were stable until after we have saved the Were?”

  “Only if you tell me your name.”

  “But I do not know. Every day it seems as if I lose more of myself. Soon there will be nothing left.”

  I could’ve told him he was already little more than narrowed eyes, pitted cheeks, and long drippy fangs protruding from a mass of spilled heart-fluid. But we didn’t have that kind of time. And I w
anted the conversation to get saner, not weirder.

  “Okay. I have maybe five minutes until Rastus comes to dispose of this almost-corpse. So. Considering that he’s damn near dead, do you have any idea how to reverse that?”

  “Fresh blood.”

  “I’m not putting anything of mine near his mouth.”

  A breath of annoyance. “As if he could swallow it. No, woman, be direct. I can feel your powers from here. Just a few drops in the wound will begin the process. You should know what to do next.”

  With no time to stall, I did anyway. “How’s my blood going to help? He’s so far gone.”

  “It will act as a stimulant. Much as doctors administer adrenaline to patients who are severely allergic to bee stings.”

  While my hallucination had been talking I’d finally decided to get busy. I’d pulled the bolo out of my right pocket. Talk about overkill, I thought as I made a quick, horizontal incision about four inches above my wrist. One of my throwing knives would’ve worked better. But I hadn’t strapped them to my wrist since returning from Iran.

  Holding the cut above the Were’s bullet wound, I squeezed my arm, forcing as much of my blood to drip into him as I could manage on short notice.

  Nothing happened.

  It won’t be long now, I told myself. Then I’ll leave. After the mission I’ll contact his pack and let them know what happened. Maybe try to help them locate the body. My eyes strayed to the shovels in the corner. We’d probably never find it.

  I was so sure the Were was going to die that when he grabbed my arm with both hands I jumped a couple of inches off the floor. “What the hell?”

  He muttered something I didn’t understand. It sounded like Greek. He surged upward in a half sit-up, using my arm as a brace. We froze in that position, our eyes meeting in a moment of perfect comprehension. I felt my vision expand, as if my contact lenses had suddenly become telescopic. More than that. My Spirit Eye, which usually allowed me to sense others, track them, mark their vulnerabilities, and take them down, turned inward. And I Saw that I could wrap my vision around him. That I could use it to reach inside him, blast the blood I’d donated across his internal wasteland, and make it work like rain in the desert.