Thirteen weres. One vampire. If I was a gambler, I’d lay odds against myself.
I stepped into the open, my revolver level, daring to see who would be the first werewolf to die.
Angela raised her hands, gesturing for me to take it easy. Take it very easy.
One shot from me and I could kill a werewolf. With Charleston bursting at the seams with them, that news would inflame the packs enough to ignite the trouble I was supposed to avoid. But I had no intention of letting them hurt Angela or me. I was neck-deep in bad choices.
I cocked the hammer of the Webley and fixed the sights on Bourbon’s sternum. The big silver slug would blast the heart right out of his lupine chest. If there was a war, he wouldn’t be part of it.
Bourbon grabbed Angela’s shoulder and pulled her between him and me. Coward. She flinched, clearly nervous that a brash move by any of us might start the gunfight.
Sean and I made eye contact, a fleeting catch of each other’s attention. In that brief exchange I didn’t see anger or fear; I saw deceit. About what? He relaxed his grip on his pistol, a SIG Sauer, and the muzzle drooped to the floor.
Bourbon taunted, “Dumb move, you walking leech, coming here alone. I could kill you in self-defense and get away with it.”
“I didn’t come to fight, Eric. I came here to trade.”
Bourbon tilted his head in puzzlement. Tufts of hair grew from his elongating ears as they jutted in my direction.
“I give you information,” I said, “you give me Julius Paxton.”
“Why should I know where he is?”
“Because one of the women who came after me admitted she worked for Paxton. She and her partner needed a were to get them into a party. You killed her partner. To shut her up. Because you knew what they were up to.”
Bourbon scowled and took a step back like I’d cornered him with the truth.
The room suddenly got refrigerator cold. A breeze ruffled curtains, lampshade tassels, and the leaves of the dried flowers in the vases on the mantel and tables.
One of the werewolves looked about. “What the hell?”
I wondered the same thing.
Bourbon glanced about anxiously, at the windows and the doors. A couple of the werewolves shivered and hunched their shoulders, auras pulsing.
Just as abruptly, the curtains went slack and the room was warm again.
The werewolves traded baffled looks. Bourbon gave them a chastising glare. They stood straighter and adjusted the aim of their pistols.
Bourbon asked, “Is Paxton this important to you?”
“The question is, how important is he to you?”
Carefully, slowly, deliberately, I reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out Wendy’s talking ring. I held it by the rim for all to examine. Light gleamed across the golden hoop.
Bourbon leaned from behind Angela for a closer look.
I knelt on a section of bare wooden floor while I panned my Webley menacingly from were to were. I placed the ring on the floor and held it upright with my index finger. “You might want to clear the room,” I said to Bourbon, “unless you want the world to know your dirty secret.”
“Everybody stays,” he barked. “Since when do we trust vampires?”
“Your call,” I replied.
The weres kept their eyes fixed on the ring.
I extended a talon from my middle finger and gave the ring a hard flick. It made a loud ping and began spinning.
Angela, Bourbon, and his weres would soon learn the truth about the death of Inga Latrall.
CHAPTER 59
The ring spun on the floor until it looked like a blurry golden sphere. The glowing center expanded until it was a grainy blue cloud around the ring. The pinging noise pulsed erratically.
The grainy cloud expanded and formed the head and shoulders of a woman. Her complexion and hair color looked washed out, like a color photo that had been left to fade in the sun. But there was no mistaking the face. Wendy Teagarden.
Her lips moved, but the pinging warble was incomprehensible. After a moment it sounded like a voice speaking at the far end of a distant tunnel.
Wendy’s truncated image looked odd, but there was no denying the magic as everyone hushed and stared, eyes transfixed and wide in amazement.
No matter from what direction you looked at the ring, Wendy faced you directly. Weres on opposite sides of the room saw the same image.
By the time we could make out her voice, she was already in midsentence. “…in the early morning, one of my crows brought me this.” She held up a thumb drive identical to one Gullah and I had buried under thermite powder before we torched her home. We might have destroyed that same thumb drive, but no matter.
The weres stared with their snouts open. Jerry’s face sagged in distress.
Wendy said, “This thumb drive belonged to Jerry Dunlap.”
He flinched as if the words had scorched him. His cheeks flushed red beneath the thinner patches of fur.
Wendy continued: “Jerry sabotaged Inga Latrall’s Cessna Citation. He infected the onboard flight computer with a virus that shuts off the avionics and jams the controls. A coded radio message activated the virus and the jet crashed into the sea. Once the flight computer loses power, the virus is erased and undetectable.” Wendy brandished the thumb drive. “This contains a copy of the virus, Jerry’s notes planning the attack, and audio files he recorded of his discussions with Eric Bourbon, possibly to use as blackmail.”
I reached through Wendy’s image, put my hand on the ring, and stopped it. “We’ve heard enough for now.” Her image and voice disappeared. “You can trust me to keep my mouth shut, but I don’t know about the rest of your crew. I know shit about Lycanthrope Law, but I wouldn’t want to be an accomplice in the murder of a top alpha.”
Weres gaped at Bourbon and Jerry. Someone whispered, “They killed Inga Latrall.”
“Lies,” Jerry hissed. The hair on his face grew thick and his ears lay back. “Pure lies. Bullshit. Bourbon, do something.”
Bourbon was seething. “Blackmail? You idiot. You’ve screwed us both.”
Sean gave the weres on either side of him an elbow nudge. They stepped back.
Bourbon sensed the misgivings of his werewolves and he bellowed, “You’ve all known what I’ve wanted from the beginning. It’s either the territory or war. No one is going to betray me.” He glared at Jerry. “You rat. Sean, take him down.”
Jerry hunched his shoulders and ruffled the hair on his neck. “So, this is how it ends, Eric? You, the great werewolf alpha, brought down by a dead dryad and a vampire.” He dropped to a crouch and aimed his pistol. “Bring it on. Let’s go down fighting like werewolves. None of us lives forever.”
“Take him,” Sean ordered.
The were to the left of Jerry faked a punch. Jerry parried the blow. The were to the right slapped the pistol from Jerry’s hand and kicked his ankle. He spun around, claws slashing, his leg collapsing. The were to the left clubbed him on the back of the head with the butt of a pistol.
Jerry crumpled to the carpet, facedown.
The weres each grabbed one of Jerry’s wrists and kicked him in the armpits, dislocating his shoulders. Jerry let loose a gruesome howl. The were on the left stomped his head, and Jerry lay quiet and limp. His aura dimmed.
These two were not simply were goons, they were were ninja goons. And I expected to fight them?
Sean stood above Jerry, aimed his SIG Sauer, and delivered the coup de grâce. Blood spurt from the back of Jerry’s skull. Smoke curled from the bloody hole while the wound hissed. Silver bullet. His aura vanished. One of the goons picked up Jerry’s pistol and stuck it in the back of his trousers.
Three nights ago, when Jerry and another were had attacked me, Sean had intervened to save me. Then he’d told me to keep the episode quiet. Was he planning a double cross of his own? Using me?
He shoved his pistol into a holster on his waist. His steely glance in my direction seemed to say: Jerry knew you and
I had talked before. But Jerry won’t be talking.
Mindful of Sean, I continued with my plan.
“Here’s the trade.” I placed the ring flat on the floor. “This ring for Paxton.”
“Not so fast, bloodsucker.” Bourbon grasped Angela’s arm and spun her to face me. “How about I put this wrinkle in your plans.” He shook her arm. “Tell him, bitch, why you are here.”
Angela closed her eyes in shame.
I rose to my feet and put the front sights of the Webley on Bourbon’s nose.
He slipped a finger under one strap of Angela’s dress and gave a light tug. “Your friend offered herself to me. That’s right—she came to me.”
Angela opened her eyes and they begged me not to judge.
“She cited Lycanthrope Law,” Bourbon explained. “In the case of a dispute between clans, a favored female from one clan could offer herself to the alpha of the other as a tribute of peace.” He let go of the strap and ran a hand down her arm. “That’s if I want her.”
Angela shivered in loathing.
“Do you think she’s worth it? Her body and passion, a gift. Provided I submit to the decision of Le Cercle. Provided I kiss Calhoun’s ass.”
His nose morphed into a dog’s snout. Fur sprouted on his cheeks, neck, and the back of his hands. “You are a fine bitch, but what makes you think what you’ve got between your legs is worth more than the title of alpha of the territory? What makes you think I want you?”
He leered at me. “What is your problem, vampire? Does this bother you?” He ran his hand down Angela’s arm. “She’s not one of your kind.”
She clenched her eyes in disgust, as if his fingers had been a tongue.
Every time he touched her, it was like a screw giving my kundalini noir another turn until the pressure of my rage made my hands shake.
Don’t give in to anger. I needed a clear mind and steady hands to save her.
Suddenly all the werewolves, including Angela and Bourbon, straightened up. Their attention turned to the hall.
A door creaking echoed from the stairwell.
My ears buzzed.
Something thumped the floor, a rhythmic tapping that matched the cadence of a man walking.
The werewolves kept their claws and guns pointed at me, but they appeared confused by what was the bigger threat, me or whatever approached from the hall.
The thumping grew louder, an unhurried, ominous sound that neared the corner where the hall emptied into the room.
King Gullah entered.
CHAPTER 60
King Gullah measured his steps with the thumping of his crystal-topped cane against the floor.
The werewolves couldn’t decide who to aim at, and their pistols moved back and forth between Gullah and me.
Gullah had changed into a cream-colored outfit and his dashiki had swirls of gold and white. He still wore his porkpie hat and chewed the butt of an unlit cigar. In a new affectation, he wore a kidskin glove on his left hand.
He glanced at Jerry’s corpse. “Looks like a work-related injury, am I right?”
Bourbon said, “Gullah, get out. This is not your concern.”
Gullah took the cigar from his mouth and flicked it over his shoulder. “But it is—I need Felix to walk out of here.”
“Old man, you might be the head vampire in Charleston, but I’ll give you to the count of five before my wolves tear into you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Gullah answered.
The windows exploded. Glass shards sprayed across the room.
A bomb? I raised an arm to cover my face. I thought about Angela and saw her and Bourbon turn their heads from the flying glass.
Yo-Yo and Rooster somersaulted through the windows and stuck their landings in Olympic perfection on either side of Gullah. Both vampires held MAC-10 submachine guns in each arm.
“Silver bullets, in case you’re wondering,” Gullah explained. “Nothing like automatic weapons to even the odds.”
“I’m working a deal, Gullah,” I said. “Bourbon’s going to tell us where to find Paxton.”
“There’s no need,” Gullah replied. “I got a lead on him. Let’s go before things got too messed up.”
A lead on Paxton? Another damn surprise in a day full of surprises. I could follow Gullah out of here. Find Paxton and finish him. Shake the Charleston dust from my shoes and go home.
Bourbon grasped Angela’s hair and twisted. She didn’t allow herself to show any pain and turned her neck only to relieve the discomfort.
I wanted to rip him apart. I couldn’t leave Angela like this.
Gullah pulled my sleeve. “Come on. This is were business.”
Bourbon licked his lips and brought his mouth to her ear. “And you—we’ll discuss Calhoun’s obituary in a kennel. While we’re doing it doggie style. After that, you can slink home like a used dirty bitch.”
Angela’s expression changed from submissive to defiant like he’d tripped a switch. She’d come here on a mission of peace, offering herself, and he ridiculed her.
Her nose grew to a dark point. Fangs jutted from under the lip of her snout. Her fingernails curved into claws.
Bourbon yanked her hair. “Don’t shift.”
Angela’s shoulders grew wider and thicker. The dress split open and barely covered her. She whipped about and broke free of his grip.
The smug look on Bourbon’s face disappeared. “Shoot her. Shoot her.”
Werewolves traded confused looks and turned to Sean.
“If you can’t handle her,” he said, “you don’t deserve to be our alpha.”
Angela scratched Bourbon’s face and he staggered backward as she pressed the attack. Her skirt hiked up her legs and flashed her panties. Her calf muscles flexed into hard hairy knots.
I wanted to help, to jump in and hold Bourbon for Angela to take her vengeance on him.
Gullah warned me with a shake of his head. He waved his fingers. “Give me your pistol.”
Outgunned as I was, I was in no position to refuse. I uncocked the hammer and handed him the revolver. Frustrated, I watched helpless as Angela and Bourbon fought.
They jostled against a wall table. Pictures and vases crashed to the floor.
Bourbon was in full werewolf mode now. His forearms had torn through his sleeves and his legs bulged with muscle. He and Angela snarled and bared fangs dripping with saliva.
My kundalini noir twitched, alternating between relief when she gained the advantage and dread when Bourbon scored a punch to her chin. Dazed, aura faltering, Angela stumbled backward and groped at the furniture as she fell to her knees.
Bourbon grabbed her hair. Angela tried twisting his fingers loose. He shook her head, hurting and humiliating her until she cried out in pain.
Doggie nostrils flaring and chest heaving, he touched the mangled flesh on his jaw and neck where she had slashed him. He swiped blood with a paw, grinned, and licked his claws.
Reaching around his waist, he pulled out the Vektor 9mm and pressed the pistol against her temple.
I could think of only one way to save Angela.
I yelled, “Me for her.”
Bourbon’s eyes cut to me in astonishment. A cruel smile grew on his face. “Interesting. Tempting. You’ve been such a pain in my ass and I’d love to watch you drown in a vat of garlic oil.”
“Keep the talking ring,” I said. “Keep Paxton. Only let Angela go.” I lowered my hands and retracted my talons. “You can kill me.”
Gullah whispered, “Crazy bastard. What are you doing? What talking ring?”
I’d have to explain later.
“It’s simple.” I let my voice go Zen. “Take me. Let her go.”
Bourbon looked at Gullah.
Gullah looked at me. “You sure about this?”
“Me for her.”
Gullah sighed in resignation. Rooster and Yo-Yo lowered their MAC-10s.
Bourbon smiled triumphantly. “Very good.” He trained the Vektor on me. “On you
r knees.”
“Angela goes free, right?” My ears and fingertips buzzed in maximum alarm. I had no idea how to get out of this.
“On your knees.”
I did as he said. Bourbon leveled the Vektor at my face. In prime shape, I might be able to dodge a bullet. But not now.
His smile turned sadistic. “I’ve changed my mind.” He jammed the muzzle against Angela’s temple. “You’ll suffer more watching her die.”
Time stopped. My vampire reflexes kicked to supervampire speed.
Bourbon blinked in slow motion. Every tooth shone with malevolent radiance. Every hair on his face and neck bristled with murderous intent. His clawed index finger tightened on the trigger.
My kundalini noir compressed like a spring and released. My arms outstretched, talons forward, I hurtled though the air like a rocket-propelled lance. I speared Bourbon in his left side. My talons slid deep into his rib cage, cutting meat and breaking bone. He shrieked and toppled over.
The Vektor fired once. A table lamp shattered.
The loud bang of the gunshot slapped me back to normal speed. I rolled on top of Bourbon and kept my talons locked in his torso. He elbowed me in the face, hard, and I fell away.
I scrambled to my hands and knees.
Bourbon sat up. Blood gushed from the rips in his shirt. The pistol lay by his side, between us. He struggled to keep upright. Blood pumped from his wounds, ran down his chest, and pooled on the floor. The wounds I’d inflicted could’ve killed a bear.
His eyes hooded in pain. His breath came in ragged labored gasps. His gaze swept the room and found me.
I expected his eyes to dull, but they lit up with hatred and renewed vigor. He wasn’t going to die.
His eyes focused on the Vektor. He reached for the gun.
I sprang for the pistol. Bourbon’s claws locked around the wrist of my right hand. My left hand seized the Vektor and I brought the gun under my right arm as my finger pumped the trigger.
This close, I couldn’t miss. Bourbon jolted from the impact of each silver bullet. Dime-size holes peppered his chest. The ejected cartridge shells spun from the pistol and bounced off me.
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