I couldn’t bear the sight of her. Not because of the tangle of brutal bandages around her gut or the strain of pain across her smile or the sweat on her quivering brow. With every glance, I remembered how she had emerged from the rain and smashed into my attacker, hugging his bomb to protect me. With every sound of her breath, I hated how she selflessly, impulsively saved my life. My misery, pity, and amazement mingled with the memory of our long-ago kiss. No wonder I couldn’t think straight. She’d done everything possible to thoroughly confuse me, inside and out. What’s worse: my emotions seemed entirely accidental.
Every time I looked at her, I should have been filled with the urge to kill her. It was my job, my duty, and possibly the only way to avoid all-out war. Instead, I wanted to kiss her diseased mouth. These wolves had done more than ruin my life, they shattered my determination. Damaged my creed. My sole purpose had been to protect the defenseless from the wolves at their throats. Now I didn’t even have that. I tangled with the enemy, trying to find a balance to appease the injustice in this despicable city.
Clearly, there was no balance to be had.
Their kind spread a disease that nearly wiped out the human race. The apocalypse’s aftermath rippled endlessly through a charred, miserable, and broken society, one that made every day a dreary endeavor.
And yet her skin smelled of milk and blood, honey and something innocent, a flower of some kind…
“I have to go,” I told Davey.
He rose, concerned, and his eyes darted back and forth between Peter and me. My adopted son’s loyalty was torn, but he was officially an adult now. He didn’t owe me anything. Besides, he was a wolf, too. Another potential monster.
I smiled. “No hurry,” I lied, and turned on my heel. I hadn’t expected him to follow, yet was a bit miffed when he didn’t. No one spoke to me. Everyone stared, watching the only human exit the room.
Chapter 2
Clifford
I had fallen asleep on the mat again, surrounded by the stink of rubber, sweat, and blood, made grimy by dozens of pounding feet.
The filthy, glorious song of my people.
Dry mouth, dehydration, eyes aching. I rolled to my feet, crossed the gym, and pulled a gallon-sized sports drink from the fridge. I guzzled the salty orange concoction and contemplated the merits of taking a shower. I abandoned the argument when I glanced out the window.
The sun winked over the barren divot of Crone’s Crater, named such after a mutt went rabid and ate his aged, wheelchair-bound mother. When the city investigated, they found several buried remains. Apparently the big bad wolf had eaten quite a few grannies. Tragically, tragedies were not unheard of, and the demolition crew simply bulldozed the entire lot. Now my gym faced another dismal crater on the wrinkled, warty face of Phoenix.
Sunrise meant I was late.
I strolled to the room at the back of the gym, my makeshift living quarters. I’d given up my apartment since I spend all my time at the gym and didn’t need a bed somewhere else. In addition to a desk, my office had a mini fridge, a microwave, a hotplate, and a slender mattress. All the thrills and frills of college dorm living.
I kept a stash of food supplies in tower of green milk crates beside the tiny fridge, and I rummaged through the makeshift pantry for an industrial-sized tub of peanut butter, a barrel of strawberry jam, and two loaves of bread. I spread one loaf on my desk and plastered it with a thick layer of gooey peanut butter. The process slowed somewhat on account of me eating every fourth sandwich. I had scraped the bottom of the strawberry jam and switched to grape when I scented them.
The backdoor was unlocked, as usual. It creaked open, pulled by brown fingers. Two heads appeared, one above the other as they checked out the scene, cocked their heads, and listened. Cautious, today. I bit into a sandwich and waited, watching their skittish, efficient surveillance. When they saw no one was there but me, they opened the door the rest of the way.
“Dude, you’re a sleepyhead today,” Rocket said. His cheeks and hands were grubby with street grime. His jeans were stained with filth and something purple, and he wore three shirts despite the fact that it would soon be over a hundred degrees outside.
“Sleepyhead, huh? Guess you better get in here and help me.”
He scampered inside, and his equally dirty brother, Touchdown, followed. Rocket reached for the peanut butter. I tapped the back of his head. “Wash your hands, kid.”
They crowded the sink, shoving their hands under the water without pushing their sleeves up. Rocket smelled dehydrated, so I put a cup on the sink and grabbed a towel. Touchdown held out his hands. He was maybe seven years old, or a small nine years, and his hand didn’t fill my palm. I dried his tiny fingers while Rocket drank noisily from the cup. They smelled of oil and mold, dirt, and canal water. They’d been sleeping in an abandoned garage, probably. Maybe a mechanic’s place.
“You boys sleeping in Old First Federal?” I said.
Touchdown shook his head and didn’t say anything, but I felt his fingers stiffen. A jolt of fear ricocheted through his heartbeat. Rocket said, “You know how we are, bro. Gotta keep fluid, gotta roll with them punches.”
“How about we roll over here and get these sandwiches made?” I said, pushing Touchdown’s now-wet sleeves higher. His stick wrists were dark from the sun. His black hair smelled like cobwebs and prepubescent sweat. Not all of the stench was coming from the boys.
“Wanna tell me about your friend at the door?”
“That’s Nancy.” Rocket looked, saw she hadn’t come forward yet, and called her. “Hey, Nancy, come meet Uncle.”
Uncle wasn’t my name any more than Rocket was his, but I suppose if life dumps you on the street without parents, call yourself whatever you want.
A small girl, about Touchdown’s size, timidly slunk into view, practically clinging to the doorframe. Eyes like saucers. Her ‘fro went in too many directions at once and was flat on the left. The amount of dirt crusted on her skin made the boys look like debutantes.
“Hi, Nancy.”
She didn’t answer and didn’t move, so I continued making sandwiches with the boys, who smeared the peanut butter and left thumb prints in the bread and licked their fingers every time they thought they could get away with it.
Nancy stayed in the doorway, quiet, frightened, and starving. Every now and then she’d scratch her head, and I worried about lice. She smelled so rank that if a monster tried to eat her, he’d spit her back up. She desperately needed a shower, yet I was a grown man and a stranger. I sure as hell couldn’t find a way around that awkward fact, and so I didn’t say anything.
Rocket talked and talked, as he was prone to do, and we were merely the audience for his ongoing stream of social commentary and self-aggrandizement. When two loaves of bread were turned into sandwiches, the boys took three each and three for Nancy. I gave them three packages of god-awful toaster pastries with hard frosting shells they somehow adored.
“Make sure Nancy gets one of these,” I said.
Her stink ate at me, and the level of negligence soured my gut. I didn’t even try to meet her eyes. Today, she was too scared. The showers were always open, and the boys were required to use them at least once a week. If she stuck around, she’d catch on. Kids did better on the streets than normies expected.
Provided they stayed away from the shanty towns, those clusters of despair rife with ugliness, madness, and illness. Kids were downright doomed in those places, abused in ways that would make any decent heart sick.
“Thanks, Uncle,” Rocket said. They scampered off. The sun shone golden and promised sweltering heat. I set the remaining sandwiches into the cooler bolted to the back of my building and went to shower before classes started.
Chapter 3
Kaidlyn
The dead man was gone, but his stink remained.
Ammonia and lemon and gangrene.
I circled the spot on the kitchen tile as if he’d appear at any moment, but he didn’t. More’s the pity. I’
d love to shoot him again. A million and a half times.
The house was quiet. Sterile. Somehow completely independent of me. Usually, the place felt like home. Haven. Fortress of Solitude, a roof over my contraband, and a small part of the world that actually belonged to me.
After the home invasion, the duplex felt alien. Had that scratch always been there? Did I have enough ammo in the kitchen pantry? Had any neighbors seen the intruder, maybe even let him in? If he had killed me, how long would it have been before someone found the body and reported my death?
I set my keys on the counter. The clink chimed through the entire house. Echoed like wind chimes. I considered a shower, but immediately decided against it. I wasn't ready to get naked in my house yet. Wasn't comfortable.
Something scratched the floor behind me. I turned. An ugly, gnarled tabby cat sat by the stove, twitching its grimy tail. Its ragged ears and wide face boasted many an alley-way fight. It bared teeth and breathed through its mouth.
I hate cats.
This particular bastard belonged to my kindly neighbor, and therefore I couldn't shoot it.
“Shoo,” I said.
It flicked its tail like a villain would rack a shotgun.
“Get!”
It didn't get. It hissed, stretched its forepaws, and languidly thrust its butt in the air. The orange cat pivoted one-eighty and flicked its tail.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I grabbed a pan, about to bludgeon the thing with a skillet. It spun and glared. Hackles rose. We froze, staring at each other. A moment passed. We both moved at once: me charging the cat, the feline mysteriously darting out of sight and somehow out of the house. Like the furry bastard had never been there. I put down the pan, cursing under my breath.
My house didn’t feel right. Neither did I. My nerves crawled, and I needed to shed my skin.
I called my dermatologist.
Doc pushed things around and created an immediate slot for my appointment. She must have seen the explosion on the news. Since a Rejuve treatment was the worst thing since the Black Plague, I wouldn’t be safe to drive myself. I called my partner, Andreas Sarakas, who gave me the lecture of a lifetime in five minutes flat. Something about me sneaking out of a hospital while suicide bombers were trying to find me.
I removed my clothes and made the mistake of passing in front of a mirror, catching a glimpse of my body’s violent history. Supernatural animals had taken bites of flesh from nearly every part of my body, save the outside of my elbows, forehead, hands, and feet. Claw tracks, tooth marks, surgery lines, and ridges from skin grafts covered everything else. In a beauty contest, Frankenstein would have won.
Moving like a drunk leper, I slid into fresh sweatpants and a black tee.
I waited on the porch, soaking up the sun, but nothing felt right. Eighty degrees outside, and despite the sun on my flesh, I remained chilled. Untouched and unresponsive. I didn’t like it. I turned my arms over, examining the thick, heavy scarring. Limbs like asphalt, shaken and crumbling in the wake of an earthquake.
Something was wrong.
Maybe I was in shock?
My neighbors slithered toward their Cadillac CTS, probably off to catch church services. James Briggs was a black man with white hair, a desk job body, and a young gorgeous wife. She waved, terse but smiling. He didn't acknowledge me. I wasn't too hurt. He was an Evangelical Christian attorney and I was a gun-toting, single parent atheist with direct ties to the devil. He may not have burned any crosses in my yard, but he hadn't called the police, either. Cést la vie.
Andreas Sarakas pulled into the drive, jazz music humming from his Tahoe.
Jazz meant he was stressed.
I certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the abominable corpse recently scraped off my tile by monster allies.
My body acted like I had gained thirty pounds since I sat down. Rising from the step took considerable effort, which I tried to hide from Sarakas. Unsuccessfully. He flew from the vehicle in a flash, grabbing me by the arm and hoisting me.
At first, I didn’t feel his hand. I saw it: big, creamy tan, blunt fingernails. Couldn’t feel it. My gut heaved. Had I been drugged? Was I sleepwalking? Was I…dead?
I grabbed his hand and squeezed. He winced.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just…y’know.”
“Bombs take things up a notch, don’t they?”
I slumped. I’d gone from being assaulted by random Nazis and picketed by preachers to jihadist assassination attempts and home invasions. Sarakas had my Jerichos in his hand, hanging from a holster which I’d left at the hospital. The Israeli weapons gleamed in the light, two Jericho 941s, Baby Eagles, a .45 loaded with more sentimental value than any sane person would invest. They had been my lifeline for years, my lucky charms. Ugly and mean, with a rickety safety and a long history of saving my ass.
I could kiss him.
“Have you eaten yet?” he said.
“No point. After these injections, I’ll be puking for days.”
“Yeah, they’re wicked. I should have my thigh retouched, but I’ve been procrastinating.” He looped an arm under my shoulders. His black hair smelled like pine and musk, followed by the flirty depth of his aftershave. While I waddled like the Tin Man, he helped me to the vehicle.
His face had leaned out and a tight, aggressive tone hit his flesh. Stress. He'd lost body fat, looked harried. Like maybe his partner had been conspiring with highly contagious werewolves and disappearing from hospitals, harboring fugitives, pirating blacklisted literature, trafficking drugs, and getting almost-blown-to-shit by random terrorists.
He deserved better.
Hell, it would be the best thing for him if his girlfriend (the pretty, sophisticated, and intelligent woman) declared he should never see me again.
I should request reassignment, but that would wave a huge red flag at a time when my life couldn’t withstand an ounce of scrutiny.
Sarakas should distance himself from me, and I should distance myself from my criminal friends and my career. I courted contradicting lifestyles: shooting rabid mutts and towing the company life on pro-human evolution while playing with the pirates after hours and facilitating illegal activities. Each action could earn me a Government Issue execution.
I couldn’t exactly stop, could I?
My life was saturated with dissidents needing protection. Davey was a mutt who happened to be dating a mutt, who coincidentally lived in a house full of illegal immigrants, who also happened to be mutt revolutionaries. Meanwhile, Big Fed employed me to kill the creatures. As a government mercenary, I partnered with my best friend to kill the diseased fiends. To top it off, a wolf queen wanted me to oust vampire villains and help her lupine civil rights campaign.
I was doomed.
Sarakas grinned, and his smile beamed warmer than the sun. Maybe everything would be okay. When he opened the door, a whiff of rich, dark coffee swung my way.
“Oh. My. God.”
He chuckled, and we leveraged my body into the seat. “I took the liberty of stopping for your favorite Americano.”
“My hero.” I grabbed the cup. “Seriously.”
His hands left my thighs, yet only a whisper of pressure changed. I fumbled with the cup, nearly cutting it in half with an out-of-control grip. Christ.
The coffee was hot on my tongue. Couldn't taste it though. I shook my head. Jeez, I was jacked up.
He turned down the music, and I felt a lecture coming on.
“I worried about you,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said, immediately guilty.
“You should have called.”
“I know.”
“I left messages.”
“My phone battery died.”
“Don’t you have wireless charging? Where were you last night?”
“Sarakas, look, I'm sorry. I went off the rails after bomb crap. Felt a little...distraught.”
“You don't say.”
“I do say.
I mean, I don't know what you want from me. I'm really tired.”
“You shouldn't have left the hospital without telling anyone.”
“I know.”
He sighed and turned the music up. I sipped the coffee, barely tasting it.
“The coffee is good.”
“You're welcome.”
He drove the way a ballet dancer swirled across the stage. His Tahoe had nice body language, slinky style. No one ever honked at him or flipped him off, unlike a certain passenger of his.
“How are things?” I said, hoping to spark a generic conversation.
“Tad from PR spun the bombing, supplied your statements, and worked the public into a good frenzy. The assault on the federal building and America’s token gun-slinging gal sparked a political wildfire. Good news: funding shot through the roof. Bad news: you might have to make an appearance on the primetime newsfeed.”
“Shoot me now.”
“By the by,” he said. “You’re suspended for three weeks.”
“What!”
“Whoever rescued you—whoever jumped on that bomb—they disappeared. Poof. Kaid, someone demolished an ambulance to retrieve them. No one was hurt, but your EMT friend, Liza, was scared out of her mind. Now some people are wondering if the drama was prearranged. Certain individuals speculate you knew both the bomber and the supposed savior.”
“Certain individuals?”
“Mullen.”
A chill ran up my spine at the sound of the Trigger’s name. If anyone could discover my secrets and destroy my life, Mullen had both the desire and the firepower. If he learned I collaborated with mutts and even harbored one, no one would be able to save me. Not even the almighty Svetlana. My whole life dangled on a delicate string, and I couldn’t find my footing.
Andreas said, “After Vincent's death and a traumatic incident wherein a goddamn suicide bomber tried to hug you, Director Santi thinks we need time to deal with the shock—”
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