Bait and Bleed

by Elizabeth Blake

  “To cure what ails me.” The ass knew exactly what I wanted to sedate.

  “Wanna grab a beer?” He tipped his head at the café.

  “Sure.” I caught his scent as we walked on. Beer, yes, fresh pork, new salty skin, a satisfied thing in his bones, and the smell of Rainer. All over. Hunter had shed recently, and the shirt he wore belonged to Rainer. Jealous of the shed and the beguiling perfume of a complacent wolf, I stifled hunger in my gut. My pulse clamored over my heart, trying to incite a riot.

  Hunter plopped down in the corner booth away from the window. The proprietor, Ruby, arrived with a pitcher of amber beer. Handcuffs lurked in her pocket, both for business and pleasure. She winked and sauntered on her way. Hunter poured two glasses.

  “How’s life treating you these days?” he said.

  “That depends on what you’ve got for me.”

  “Right to the sale, huh? No foreplay or anything? I’m feeling cheap over here. What’s a guy have to do to get some attention?” He batted his eyelashes hard enough to send a choppy breeze at my face. He tried to purse his lips but he was smiling too much to pull it off.

  I laughed, took the beer. He was right. I was high-strung and rude. His fluorescent mohawk stood tall and proud. I’d never seen him so relaxed. Usually, he didn’t take to crowds, yet here he was, chilling out in the busiest diner in Red.

  “You’ve got something new,” I said. “What are you on?”

  “While there does happen to be something special on the market these days, I’m not taking it.”

  “Really? Because you look all…radiant and shit.”

  He sipped his beer and leaned in. “I’ve been changing more often.”

  I squinted. “How often?”

  “A couple times a week.”

  “Jesus, man!”

  “I know. At first, I thought, it’s crazy. I mean, what am I thinking, right? How can indulging the wolf possibly be a good idea? Surprise: it doesn’t get worse. My beast and I, we’re working things out. Getting to know each other.”

  “Right.” I call bullshit.

  He chuckled and threw his palms up. “I know how it sounds.”

  “Do you? Next you’ll be telling me about the wonders of yoga and the power of the earth’s erogenous zones or something.”

  “Don’t discount yoga. Tantric sex is nothing to laugh at.”

  “You’ve got a girl, don’t you?”

  He blushed from the neck up. “I can’t lie, there is a dame…”

  “Did you say ‘dame’? What is this, a film noir?”

  “Trust me, dude; she’s a dame. A straight up high class, smooth svelte—”

  “Dame. Right. I heard you.”

  “Long story short, I want her. And now I’m clean.”

  “No drugs at all?”

  “Nada.”

  “Hunter, I ain’t your dad or nothing, but that sounds like a whole heap of bloody trouble waiting to happen.”

  “Trust me. I know. I ran through all that in my head. But this woman, she’s clean, too, and she’s got her beast wrangled like a hogtied lamb—”

  I leaned in so fast the table slammed into my chest and spilled some beer. “Hunter, are you telling me this chick is L-pos?”

  “Hey, ‘chick’ can be construed by some as derogatory language.”

  “God, Hunter! You’ve always been so careful, but this? Human women are crazy enough, but you go for a female with extra lunacy and homicidal tendencies built in?” How young, stupid, and careless can one boy get?

  He bristled. “I might be young and stupid, and all those other adjectives running through your head, but I know a few things.”

  Had I spoken aloud? I leaned back. Shit. Of the two of us, I was the one out of control. I wiped at beer sloshed on the table.

  He sipped his drink. I echoed his movement but didn’t taste the beer. I focused, taking a moment to calm my pulse.

  “Out there all alone, man, you won’t last long. The whole lone wolf motif is bullshit. The only wolves that walk alone are the ones too old, too sick, or too twisted to be in a pack. And you aren’t any of those things.”

  There I was, being lectured by a kid.

  “You said there was something new?”

  “Yeah. The doc has been cooking up a batch of awesome. It’s a bit hard on the sedative side of the spectrum, but the tail is smooth. Longevity varies with time and dosage, but most guys don’t find the short end of the buzz until four to six months in. Treat it right, and you won’t build up an immunity until next summer. Of course, the more you take, the faster your body rejects it. The drug is called Xen. With an X, of course, because the doc is snarky like that.”

  “Sounds like quite the wonder drug.” I trusted Hunter more than other dealers, but his lofty language made it sound too good to be true. “If it doesn’t work—”

  He laughed. “It works, better than you’d hope. But I’m serious about the timing, Clifford. Too much, too fast, and you’ll be digging for a new drug in a couple weeks. Unfortunately, this is the best thing on the market right now. If you burn through it, you’re out of luck.”

  “Alright, so how much? And how much are you carrying?”

  “I don’t have any on me, and I can’t give you any today on account of you being followed—”

  “Followed?”

  “Now don’t start swinging your head around. With hundreds of people around—hell, maybe if you were clean, you might have noticed the straggler at the end of the block.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I started to stand, ready to go and throttle the person tailing me. Hunter shook his head. “Not the time nor place, Clifford. If you start a fight in this condition, you’ll shed, and people will die.”

  I sat, legs aching to walk outside, fists yearning to beat someone into the pavement.

  “Things are changing,” Hunter said. “The city—our people—are on the brink of a schism. Groups are polarizing, motives are shifting, numbers are realigning, and it isn’t leading up to anything good. I can’t tell you what to do, but be careful about who you throw in with.”

  “I’m not throwing anything in with anybody. It’s me and my gym, that’s all I have in my life and all I need. I don’t play politics.”

  “Sometimes politics play you.”

  “Shit, you’re full of fortune cookie wisdom today, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Here’s what we do: you drop payment at The Flagon, a bar at the other end of the sector. When payment is received, a third party will deliver the goods. I understand that no one likes to drop cash cold without receipt of goods. Therefore, to establish credit, the first hit is on us.”

  “How fast can you get this to me?”

  “I don’t deliver and I don’t accept payment.”

  “That’s too many people knowing my business, Hunter.”

  “Not really.” He slid a card across the table. “When you pop in at the bar, you pay for your drink with this card. Rainer sees the account ping, and he takes the Xen payment from your card. No actual cash exchange occurs. One of his trusted runners will bring you the shipment.”

  “Can they drop it somewhere so I don’t have to meet anyone?”

  “No. The drug is in the experimental stages, Clifford, and Doc is constantly improving his art. There needs to be some point of contact to make sure you’re handling the drug okay and that the drug isn’t handling you. If you burn too fast and rampage on someone, we have to be able to bury the connection before it bites everyone in the chain. We’re trying to protect everyone.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Who will be making the delivery?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like a double blind method. I don’t know the cow, the mule, or anything. I only know you and Rainer.”

  Leaving Rainer with all the incriminating knowledge.

  Maybe I should keep using pot. It was a flash in the pan but easier to explain. If I was caught with a mutt-only drug, it would be impossible t
o claim I wasn’t diseased.

  Hell, if I ever had to explain what I was or wasn’t, chances were I was already dead regardless of what I was smoking. I hit the bottom of my beer, and Hunter poured more.

  “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 6

  Kaidlyn

  Spent days waking from the coma, stuck between neither here nor there, and dreams started to leak in. Benign at first, visages of mountains and skeletal highways. Then came crowds of debris and piles of people, stacked up, rolling together like tumbleweeds. Opened my eyes after a marathon of attempts and saw the angriest person in the world.

  Andreas stood glowering, arms crossed, with a shit-storm of negative thoughts clouding his eyes.

  “Crap,” I grumbled, sounding drunk.

  “I have half a mind to shoot you,” he said.

  Nausea gyrated up my body and I turned my head to puke. Dr. Robles was ready, bin in hand. My skin burned, fragile like crepe paper about to go up in flames. My organs bounced around and elbowed my stomach, agitating my sickness. My arteries felt bruised, my arms were thin. Veins protruded on the back of my hands.

  Two weeks without moving, eating, exercising, or thinking. Rehab would be required to get me back up to par. I felt soft and embryonic.

  Two weeks without killing someone or someone trying to kill me. It was worth it, despite the pain seared down to my bones.

  I turned to the doc. “I’m gonna need some more drugs. I feel weird.”

  “My associate performed current therapy to rehabilitate certain muscle groups.”

  “Current? Like, electricity? Jeez, Doc.”

  “You’ll find enhanced dexterity, possibly increased strength. I know your job is important to you, and I wanted to keep you in top condition. I’d like to utilize your metrics in my research.”

  Dr. Robles smelled of buttery popcorn and sweet soda. I puked again and she wrinkled her nose.

  I raised my hand in a salute. “I am ready to go home.”

  “Aftercare demands a week of restricted bed rest,” she said.

  “You have until noon tomorrow.”

  “Three days.”

  “Fine.”

  “And you’re signing up for the full rehab schedule.”

  “Deal,” Sarakas interjected. He stared at me. “She’ll make every appointment.”

  “Well, of course,” I said. “What do you take me for?”

  He didn’t answer, probably because he’d been taught how to be polite.

  She wrote a list of prescriptions long enough to make a novella and forced me to sit in a wheelchair, but I didn't argue about the last part. I was too busy trying to breathe without falling over. She caught me at the door, gently touching my elbow with her open palm.

  “I may have made a mistake,” she said.

  My gut sank. “What do you mean?”

  “When you went under, we filtered your blood, but it was gunked with debris from multiple chemical remnants. Your body tried to reject the cleaner blood, acting septic. I called your next of kin.”

  My gut sank further. “Oh.”

  “If I had realized...” She cleared her throat. “Well, you never updated your file, and I had an uncomfortable conversation with someone possibly no longer in your life.”

  My father. I nodded. “No worries.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “Do not, under any circumstances, take any more Gorgonblood. Not one ounce, not until your body is ready for it.”

  “How long until I can use it again?”

  “At least nine months. Maybe twelve.”

  I blinked. “Nine months.”

  Impossible. Not in my line of work. Not if I wanted to stay mobile and breathing. I haven’t gone nine months without being hospitalized for the past six years. “Whatever you say, Doc. And thanks for going all-in. I feel loads better.”

  She smirked. “Well, I'm sure you will soon. Besides, you're coming back for a checkup.” She gave me a vomit bag.

  Sarakas wheeled me out. The sun streaming through the window felt like a solar flare. He pulled sunglasses from the top of his head and handed them to me. Better. I squinted at him, and he didn't try to make eye contact. He and I were overdue for an uncomfortable conversation. Or six.

  He drove and I focused hard on staying upright without spewing on his upholstery. Didn't have anything to say. If he had anything to say to me, he couldn't find the words. Probably for the best. His disappointment and anger filled the vehicle and attempted to smother me.

  God, it was too much. Maybe Dr. Robles could put me in another coma. Not likely. I couldn't sleep the rest of my life away, could I?

  I'd feel better when I had my guns.

  “Clearly, I'm mad at you,” Sarakas said.

  “I gathered.”

  “Hopefully you understand why.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “God, Kaidlyn. If you were a man I'd punch you right now.”

  “Did Doc tell you how bad it was? My scars were turning to cement. Like, starting to crack and stuff—”

  “I don't give a shit. Common courtesy says when you check out for a two week coma, you have the goddamn decency to mention it to the people who worry about you.”

  “Dr. Robles said she would tell you.”

  “Oh, she told me all right, and then she had security escort me out.”

  “Really? Dr. Robles did? I can't imagine. Why would she do that?”

  “Well, I might have thrown a chair.”

  I stared at him. A smile started on my face, completely independent of the guilt and turmoil rolling through my gut. Sarakas, losing his temper, and throwing a chair? Oh, I would have to pull security footage on that one.

  He sulked self-righteously while I grinned for a moment, then the humor faded. When he drove me home, the neighborhood looked different. Thinner, I suppose. The tall, useless fence seemed wan. There were fewer cars, more weeds, and less activity. People had moved out, clearing a blast radius for my disastrous presence.

  Lights were on inside. Davey was home. Uneasily, I considered that facing him might be worse than facing Sarakas. Then again, what teenager wouldn’t love to have free run of the house for two weeks?

  My teenager, as it turns out.

  He stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, feet crossed, closed off and grumpy while his towering boyfriend made dinner. Sarakas knew both Davey and Peter were mutts, and his posture grew guarded. He hadn’t turned anyone over to the feds—miracle of miracles—but he sure as hell wasn’t comfortable with the situation. Andreas took my bag to the room and left me to face the music.

  “That wasn’t fair, Kaid,” Davey said.

  I grappled for a witty retort, but my chest clogged like a truck stop drain.

  “Do you have any idea how I felt?” he said.

  “I chickened out. I simply wanted some time—”

  “You don’t get to disappear and turn your back on everyone. People depend on you, and you’re being a bitch. And a coward.”

  “Hey.”

  “Why did you let this particular cluster of violence put you on the run? People try to kill you, like, all the time! All of a sudden you turn into a sissy and hide under the bed—”

  “Excuse you!”

  “—Without saying goodbye. Without me knowing the severity of your condition, giving me two full weeks to worry about how you might up and die. You aren’t immortal, Kaid, you’re only a human.”

  And he wasn’t. Barring violence, he might live forever. I had a ticking clock and was surrounded by a crap storm of ways to be killed. For some reason, he cared about that a lot. Despite the constant doom and gloom billowing around him, his inner light glowed unmolested and unharmed.

  “We’re all mortal, Davey,” I said. “Human or not.”

  Tragically, everyone around him was a threat, including the man he had fallen in love with. Peter was a foreign enemy on do
mestic soil, regardless of the casual way he maneuvered through my kitchen and the culinary masterpiece he was undoubtedly cooking. The Russian mutt was far too familiar with my boy and my house.

  “Now that I’m home, Peter doesn’t spend the night without my permission.”

  Davey’s face went through a few contortions: embarrassment, anger, confusion, teenage stubbornness. I gave him my immobile stare long enough for him to realize I wouldn't be talked down. He said, “You suck.”

  “Yep.” I saluted. Silently, Peter stirred steamed vegetables and continued prepping dinner. Everyone else had heaping piles of deliciousness, and I got chicken broth. Even that was almost too much for my stomach, but I didn’t admit it. Supper was a terse affair providing little conversation. Andreas checked his watch a few times but stubbornly didn’t leave until Peter kissed Davey’s forehead and slipped out the door. Finally, Andreas patted my arm, said goodnight, and left.

  My body hurt all over as if a brutal sunburn had scorched down into the bones. My guts cramped and battled the food. Rejuve treatments could really jack someone up. I felt slow but light, as if pounds of scar tissue had gone missing.

  I stood in front of the mirror and slowly unclothed, one piece at a time, examining my old, new body. At first glance, a stranger wouldn’t notice the difference. The plethora of scars remained glaringly evident, but the severity of clusters, ridges, and seams had lessened. As if the Doc had taken her hand and smoothed wet clay into the gaps of my body. The metallic sheen of silver-saturated sodium sulfadiazine smudged deeper pocks and ruts, but my surface area had been sanded down and polished. I imagined Doc taking a potato peeler to me, shaving off pieces, dropping them to the floor like curled wood shavings.

  I twisted to the left, and the worst of the binding tissues had disappeared. Whorls of bright pink flesh showed between wrinkles in old damage. I leaned back, rolled my neck, and tossed my head. Doc helped me with the surface, but the real difference moved beneath the skin, deep down. She restored enough mobility to push me three years into the past. The same woman who urged me to retire had gifted me with a body that could survive another five years of brutal abuse. Ironic.

  I ran a bath as hot as my newest flesh could tolerate and slid into the tub. Heat ripped over my nerves and went straight to my head. Vertigo pushed me through a spinning tunnel and I couldn’t feel my fingers again. Dark circles shoved through my eyes and my spine forgot how to work. Impact roused me, and dull pain in my freshly bruised skull told me I’d fainted. Completely different kind of pain than claws and fistfights and explosives.