by Jackie Ivie
Why These Two
by Jackie Ivie
A Vampire Assassin League Novella
“We Kill for Profit”
11th in series
Copyright 2013, Jackie Ivie
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Cologne was not a good mix with insect repellent. Or sweat. Sandalwood, DEET, and body odor. Darryl turned his head and sniffed. He didn’t need to check for the culprit. The only one upwind of him was Ted. He was also the only one not wearing headgear. Jackass.
“What you looking at?”
Ted’s voice threw out the challenge. Darryl tipped his head to one side as if considering it. The mosquito netting moved with him. So did the insects buzzing about him, drawn by every exhalation of breath. He hated the rain forest. Hated the heat. The incessant rain. The humidity. There was no way to get dry or stay dry. Not even right out of a shower. Clothes clung, stuck with precipitation or perspiration. And that included Ted’s wardrobe as it draped off one huge physique. Ted was the largest of them. Standing a good six foot eight. Close to three hundred on any scale. None of it was table flab. The guy was solid muscle and full belligerence. Crass. Uncouth. Big-mouthed. Big framed. He could more than block an attack. Flatten an opponent. Crush a chest cavity. Slam your ass into next week.
He’d be the perfect bodyguard if it wasn’t for his lousy shooting and worse knife skills.
Darryl slid a thumb along the non-business side of his knife, making sure little glimmers of light caught the blade. He was a bit behind Ted in size. Three inches at most and maybe forty pounds. But he was a lot faster. They all knew he could gut a man in moments. Without looking. They’d watched him do it.
“A jackass,” Darryl finally replied.
“Why you—”
“Shut up. Both of you. Pasquale hired us to protect, not bicker.”
Sam spoke from the far end of the patio, hissing the warning. Darryl turned back forward and inhaled through his mouth. That even tasted of sandalwood and sweat. Ugh.
Sam was the wiry one. Good with every weapon, hard to hit. That’s what came of having a long distance runner’s frame. Fast flying fists. He was also the most nervous. Constantly toying with his guns. Continually licking his lips. Forever scratching at something. He had chronic lip chapping. Psoriasis. Probably fungal issues. No doubt all acerbated by the humidity of the Amazon jungle. One had to wonder why he was there. But not for long. Took a desperate man to hire his services out to the devil. Took a hopeless man to stay.
Darryl moved his neck sideways pulling until the vertebra cracked. He did another shift, cracking the spot between his shoulder blades. And then he stopped. Didn’t matter how many times he tried to release tension at the base of his spine. The bullet lodged there wasn’t moving, and for now it was bearable.
Barely.
“Jesus, Ted. You reek. What the hell?”
That was Dan, standing opposite Darryl - just this side of visible through the foliage. Dan was their sharpshooter. Perfect aim. Perfect skills. Obviously just getting a whiff. The disgust came through his whisper. Somebody should warn him not to start anything. Somebody besides Darryl. He slipped his combat knife back into the long pocket on his vest and pulled another. They were watching for intruders. Keeping this path safe until Pasquale finished his business up on the podium and decided to walk through it. Not a hard duty. If the ache in his back would just ease up.
“Fuck you,” Ted answered.
Darryl snickered.
“Why didn’t you wear a hat like everyone else?”
“Didn’t want to mess up my hair.”
Darryl flicked a glance to him. Just as he’d already seen. Ted had a military regulation flat-top. Not a hair long enough to get out of place.
“What’s with the foo-foo juice, then?”
“Got a date.”
“With who? Darryl?”
Darryl slammed a blade into the tree right beside Dan’s left ear. He heard the hilt shudder more than saw it, since Dan was in the shadows. He had to hand it to him. Dan didn’t skip a beat.
“Pardon me. I must have meant Sam.”
He reached up to pull the knife out and Darryl put another one right beside it, barely missing Dan’s fingers. The hand dropped.
“You touch my knives, you lose you’re shooting ability. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. I’ll get them later. After this bit of fluff is over.”
He motioned with his head toward the staged area. Somebody said something a bit louder from the podium. They were speaking Spanish so he wasn’t really paying attention. And he didn’t care. Darryl pulled on his left buttock, easing it against the spot where the bullet burned while clapping sounds and cheers interrupted them. Then he did the same with his right side.
Damn wound. Damn bullet. Damn military brass with their rules and forced retirement. Damn bad luck. If it hadn’t been for this bit of bad luck, he’d still be with the Black Elite, doing something for his country. Not playing guard dog for some self-glorified drug dealer with a bank account the size of Cincinnati.
“For your information, I am seeing Maria.”
Sam dropped a gun. Dan stiffened, making leaves move. Darryl froze. Ted went on, as if he wasn’t earning a death sentence with every word.
“She is very saucy. Likes a big man.”
“Are you insane? She’s Pasquale’s woman!”
“Maybe he should keep her satisfied, then. And I wouldn’t have to do it. Because, I have to tell you boys. Theodore Smith is one big man. Enough to satisfy any—”
A blur slipped through Darryl’s vision, containing two long daggers thrown with incredible speed. They were instantly followed by another one in almost the same air passage. Rather like a bicyclist race where they create a slipstream for the second racer. He didn’t actually see the knives. He sensed them whooshing by, ruffling his mosquito netting, a hair below his chin level. He had two blades flying after them. And then a third. The last two knocked down their objectives. The first one missed.
A scream portended where that weapon had ended: Pasquale’s throat. Darryl didn’t look. He heard the reaction as a garbled bit of Spanish screaming came through the speakers. No other body guard had reacted. Nobody else had even seen. Darryl shoved the netting off, spun sideways and sent another blade at the perpetrator’s location. A second later he was beside Dan, pulling his two knives out.
“What the hell’s going on?” Dan hissed.
“Assassin.”
He jerked his head away as another long dagger grazed where he’d been standing. The next one went right into Dan’s temple. The guy went down without firing a shot. He heard Ted finally get a grasp of the situation. His roar was loud and confrontational as he lumbered up the steps to their boss, Pasquale. To hover. Guard. Protect.
Too late.
Darryl sent a knife at the assassin before sliding behind the tree. He couldn’t actually see what he was tossing at. It was more a shadow than anything. A haze. A distorted image. He’d never seen anyone move so fast. He knew he’d hit, though. There was no thud noise that would mean his knife had hit the wall beside Sam.
And Sam finally reacted, pumping shot after shot into the shape flitting through the area between them. It didn’t last. Sam was gone. O
r rather, his head was. It took a second or so for his body to drop, as it spurted blood from the severed neck. Darryl gripped his remaining knife and the next moment he was lifted completely off the ground with his back slammed into the tree trunk. And if he hadn’t been hampered by how the blow jostled the bullet - lodged too near his spine for surgical retrieval yet just close enough for a career kill - he wouldn’t be seeing stars. Rockets. Gray edges. Swirling blackness. And if he wasn’t mistaken…he was looking right at what looked like an avenging angel.
A real avenging angel.
Darryl shook his head. Blinked. And then returned the stare he was getting from the blond vision eyeing him from about a nose length away. She was unbelievable. Too beautiful for words. Too ethereal to exist. Like something from a fairy tale. Or Mount Olympus. Or maybe Valhalla. Tons of white-blond hair haloed her, framing absolute perfection as the light penetrated and highlighted each strand. She had soot-dark lashes. Light, violet-cast eyes. Amazing features. Unblemished, pale skin. Ruby dark lips…
Fangs.
Darryl jerked back and every muscle in his body twitched with the shock. Somewhere deep in his spine the damn bullet shifted, sending liquid heat and agony down both legs. The final knife fell from his nerveless fingers. And for the first time in his life, he nearly lost his bodily functions. He was bereft of weapons. Vulnerable. Pinned. Like some insect. By a woman who dangled all two hundred and forty-seven pounds of him off the ground with one hand shoved into his abdomen. His eyes widened as she lifted the blade he’d just thrown at her, placed it at the bottom of his nose, and just held it there.
She’d caught it?
“So…you want to play, Handsome?”
Her voice startled. Echoing weirdly about him. Softly, yet with a vibration that lifted goose bumps all along him. Like the wind had decided to learn how to whisper.
“Uh…”
He didn’t know how to answer. Or what she wanted him to say. And the way she tipped her head slightly to one side didn’t give him much clue. Nor did the way she narrowed her eyes. The way she leaned toward him gave him little more. He watched with wide eyes as she licked her lips, prior to lifting her upper lip in a semi-snarl. She didn’t seem to like how he backed from her until his head reached the wood behind him. But he couldn’t change it. This was no angel, heavenly or otherwise.
This bitch had fangs. Real fangs.
Darryl bent his knees and kicked, using the tree for support. Nothing moved. He sensed her nearing, her chin at his shoulder…her nose tipping his jaw upward, displaying his neck for her. Her tongue licked along his pulse where it beat against his throat. The slightest shudder ran through her frame as she moved closer to him. Placing what felt like pretty nice breasts against him. Darryl writhed. Squirmed. And then turned into a shoving, kicking, flailing, trapped creature. Nothing worked. He might as well be glued to the tree with iron bands. He felt a sting. A minute wetness.
“Mmmm.”
She purred it, and the very next moment, he was adding his groan. Liquid ecstasy pumped through him, sent there with every beat of his heart. Thrill chased excitement through his veins. Stimulation pulsed with pleasure. Exhilarated. Agitated. And then added more. Darryl felt himself grow hard. His buttocks tightened. His gut clenched. The sensation grew. Her body came even closer to him. Her purr changed.
To deep, throaty moans.
A staccato of gunfire erupted behind them somewhere, peppering the leaves about them. It altered the sensual aura she’d somehow created about him. She lifted her head, looking him right in the eyes. There wasn’t much light purple color in hers at the moment. They were solid black. Deep. Vast. Containing oceans of mystery and puzzlement. As if questioning and considering and wondering. Darryl blinked. And the next instant, she was gone.
He dropped like an anvil, his legs slamming onto the ground, delivering a crunching blow to his old injury. The fall killed every bit of arousal with the absolute agony. He didn’t dare move, so he just stayed there. Breathing shallowly. Fetal position. He didn’t note Dan’s lifeless body beside him, leaning against the tree’s trunk as if just taking a break. He didn’t notice all the indecipherable Spanish getting spewed through the scene as Ted bore down on him. He was blocking it. It was the lone way to get the pain to a bearable level. He reached a hand to his neck, touching where that thing had bitten him. His fingers brought back fresh blood. He’d just gone up against a vampire. A real vampire. And been bitten. This blood was proof.
Or he was going insane. And nobody needed to witness that.
“Bailes? You alive, man?”
A quick glance showed Maria at Ted’s side. She must like big men. She reached the bodyguard’s waist. And that was with five-inch platform heels on. Ted went to his knees beside Darryl. The ground should’ve trembled. It didn’t. And then they put a flashlight on him, blinding him. Jackasses.
“What the hell happened?”
“Assassin.” Darryl ground out the word. It didn’t sound like him, even to his own ears.
“No shit. You see him?”
Darryl licked his lips. They were the only thing dry. It was so wet on the ground the moisture was seeping through his trousers. And then his jacket. No way was he telling. Not one word.
“No,” he replied.
“You had to.”
“Did you see him?” Darryl asked instead.
“No…but I don’t have my knives stuck in these daggers.”
Darryl moved his eyes and looked over the two wicked-looking daggers Ted carried. The man was right. Two of Darryl’s prized combat knives were buried in both dagger hilts. Perpendicular. Making large “X” shapes. He’d never seen long knives like those. They looked deadly. Efficient. Double-edged. Archaic.
“Give me those.”
He put out a hand. And watched it tremble.
CHAPTER TWO
Reika was restless. Jumpy. Anxious. She paced the storage area of the jet, shoving things aside in order to get room. Baggage got shifted over. She even scratched one of the four prized automobiles the plane was transporting. She hadn’t meant to gain four more cars at auction, but the instructions she’d given her assistant, Bracken, had been ambiguous. Bracken handled almost everything. Reika could’ve. She’d been dead long enough to gain immunity from all but blazing sunlight. That’s what came of being one of VAL’s senior assassins. She’d been dead over seven hundred years. She just didn’t like making travel arrangements, or anything else that required paperwork.
So…Bracken had purchased four new automobiles for her collection. He’d chosen well. This one was a lovely two-door coupe. Reika glanced at the damage she’d caused and shrugged it off. It wasn’t important. That was another oddity to add to this. Her vehicles were all pristine, kept in a temperature controlled environment. Perfect condition. Mechanically sound. Ready at a moment’s notice for a driver. But that scratch was the least of her worries at the moment. She was worried? That was another bit of strangeness.
Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
She’d never felt like this. Agitated. Nervous. Acting like one of those drug addicts she’d seen more than once. And not just on television. Despite every effort to stay in the trunk marked ‘Fragile’, she couldn’t. The walls felt like they were too small. The area too cramped. And she could swear she heard the faintest heartbeat.
She slapped her hands against her bare arms, amazed not only that she felt it, but that it helped dull a chill she shouldn’t be suffering. So, the cargo area was cold. And she wore little more than black leather – long, slim fit trousers and a hacked-off cami. This was what she always wore, and this was how she always traveled…since purchasing that leather trunk in the early twentieth century, anyway. Her extra large trunk was roomy, it carried a sprinkling of dirt from her transformation scene, and it was nondescript, the outside scuffed and worn and covered with travel stickers.
There was no excuse for having an issue with it now, more than a century later.
Reika pulled a minis
cule phone from her back pocket, slipped the front open, and pushed a three digit code into it. She had several of these phones. All the assassins carried them. Programmed with just one number, each phone got one use before being discarded. Safe. Efficient. Clean.
“VAL Headquarters.”
She’d reached Invaris, the Crusader knight who handled the technology behind the Vampire Assassin League. He sounded chipper. But that was normal since finding his mate. It wasn’t going to happen to her. Every vampire seemed to undergo a personality change, with a resultant leave of absence, once they found their mate. Except maybe…Invaris. Then again, he wasn’t an assassin. He was just the guy in front of the curtain. At the moment, she wanted the guy behind it.
“It’s Reika. Get me Akron.”
“Anything for you, Gorgeous.”
“Invaris, you ass—”
“Transferring.”
Ugh.
The knight cut her off and she waited for Akron to answer. The head of the Vampire Assassin League was older than dirt. Or so he claimed if anyone asked. Reika didn’t truly know his age. Or his history. She couldn’t even remember his appearance. None of them did. He was just there. At the core. The rock. The base. He’d always been there.
He’d come for her when she’d been walled into the hut. The villagers had given her a death sentence, along with the rest of her family. Only the others were already dead. And hers wasn’t going to be from plague. No. She was going to perish of thirst. Maybe starvation. Or even horror from looking at the macabre members of her extended family, riddled with blackened, diseased pustules; grotesque in death, worsening as the hours wore on. Akron had saved her. He’d come. Appearing somehow in the center of that hovel. He’d taken her from living hell; changed it to living death. He’d put the first knives in her hands, decided her training, sent her to learn from the best swordsmen, decade after decade, until there wasn’t anyone left that could beat her.
She never looked back. No reason.
“Reika.”
Akron had a voice that evoked shivers. Impossibly deep. Incredibly moving. Promising all sorts of illicit delights. If she had a soul, it would have been ferreted out and violated. And loved every bit of it.