Quasi said, “Ground rattlesnake can help you heal. Curanderismo.”
The cinched flesh over his eye and mouth gave him a perpetual grimace, but he seemed decent and didn't hate me. I liked those qualities in people. He tucked his head and left.
“Good luck,” Biscuit said. He chomped into the sandwich and followed Quasi out the door. Weird. Not sure where I would find rattlesnake meat though. Or did he mean the rattler's rattler? As I stood there thinking about it, the lady behind the counter glared at me for chasing off her underage eye-candy. Whatever. I rolled my eyes and continued to the back of the store.
The brief conversation only served to remind me that I'd been caught in the middle of a mutt shit storm where people from all sides occasionally tried to kill me. I grew angry all over again.
I hurried to the back, sneaking into a jerking booth with suspicious stains. Eek. The rear panel slid back, offering a short, steep stairwell. Dark, concrete, and much like a prison block.
I met more mutts coming up. I recognized one. Heathcliff wrinkled his nose at me and slunk against the wall. He stunk of pot, and wore black rimmed glasses. We didn't speak to each other.
The last reinforced door opened and the sweet aroma of marijuana lingered in the den. The army of computer screens blinked, processing and performing according to Rainer's every whim. He wore beach shorts with highlighter yellow piping and a lime tank top so bright it hurt to look at him.
Rainer smiled. Mirthful, mischievous.
“Durant! Glad to see you’re up and about. Miss you and hope you’re well, all that. Now, I need your help.”
“Rainer, about our joint acquisition—”
“Later. First I need to secure payment. In trade. Remember how I decided to use you for important deliveries of hard-to-transport goods?”
“I shuffle your pirate treasures around sometimes, yeah. That’s a particularly suspicious twinkle in your eye. Makes me nervous. What do you want now?”
“I have a Xen delivery I need to be processed immediately. A low-risk drop. No cash pick up, simply a deposit.”
“I don’t know about this,” I said.
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m a mutt-killer by trade.” I lifted my shirt enough to flash the holster of my silver-loaded firearm. “And you want me to traffic mutt-suppression meds?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe use someone else? Someone not armed with Ag rounds?”
“Too many people know you come here, Kaidlyn. They know who you are. Some are speculating that you might turn wolves over to the FBHS. We need to make a statement that justifies our collaboration and proves your dedication.”
“And hawking your fancy pharmaceuticals will implicate me further in your seedy underworld, shoveling more shit on my head if you decide to bury me.”
“Seedy?” He sniffed. “I resent the choice of words, but yes, that’s the desired effect. Do these urgent pill drops for me and you’ll prove that you are willing to lay down with dogs.”
We paused. He blushed.
“Figuratively,” I said, trying not to recall a lip-lock with a certain mutt queen. “And you think it's a good idea for me to meet this particular mutt?”
“Yes, I do. He's a decent guy. A little high-strung, fatigued, works hard. Try not to shoot him on sight.”
“Rainer, you want me to meet a skittish, unknown mutt and sell him illegal drugs? I mean, the possibility of everything going wrong at once is fairly high.”
“I know you, Kaidlyn. You're ready for this. Plus, you don't have much of a choice. How else are you going to afford the next installment of Gregory's Political Symposium? I mean, with all your medical bills, Davey's curriculum, and a handful of Down-boys to pay off, you'll be broke for decades. And then there’s this last favor. I had to shut down a whole vector, did I mention that? My fingers are cramping from all the code I had to type…”
“You're a dick.”
He winked and handed me a slip of paper. His smirk grew increasingly impish. I had a good reason to distrust his grin. All of his plans were hatched at someone's expense and for someone's benefit.
“You’re a royal pain in my ass, Rainer. How did I get messed up with you?”
“Now, don’t be cruel. I understand you’re tired, sweetheart, but there's nothing you can't accomplish with dedication and a touch of faith.”
“Faith? Who needs faith? I'm not—” I read the name and address. “You gotta be kidding me. Is this a joke?”
“A cosmic one, yes!” He chortled. “What a coincidence, right?”
“You can’t expect me—”
“Oh, get over it. I think the lady doth protest too much. You’re making the drop and you know it.”
“I want good news now,” I growled. “Tell me about the goddamn book.”
He spun in his chair, hopped up, and crossed the room. His fine hair brushed across his bare back, curtaining the ripples of flesh from long-ago damage. At least he no longer hid the scars from me.
He gathered a chunk of green velvet, unwrapping it as he returned. Inside the plush blanket sat a fat book with black leather binding.
Sigurd’s book of names.
My pulse danced a jig. The vampire would have my head for this.
“I saw the security at that place,” I said. “Dare I ask how you got inside?”
“An apprentice of mine is a bit of a pickpocket. Works magic with locks, and once I dropped the power grid, he slipped inside. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was a magician. Like, with real magic.”
Since my Wiccan neighbor had recently performed a protection spell that may or may not have helped save my skin during a home invasion, I kept my mouth shut. I simply didn’t want to deal with the possibility of more supernatural gunk smudging my world.
He extended the book, but I didn’t touch it. A chill wrinkled my spine like he had offered me a slimy carcass.
“I don’t want to keep it, Rainer. I simply need it translated.”
“What kind of operation do you think I run here? The first thing I did was completely scan it into multiple electronic formats, and I sure as hell don’t want this stinky vampire smut lying around my sanctuary. Get it out of here before it gives me hives. I agreed to help you steal the secret book, but I am not getting involved in vampire politics.”
“Please. You didn’t hear anything I said after ‘secret book.’ You were dying to help me.”
“And I did. Take the book and get it out of here.”
I didn’t want to, but since had I orchestrated the theft, it was my responsibility. When did I go from being a gunslinger to a paperboy? Meanwhile, vamps ruled the world, my goddamn ribs hurt like a mo-fo, and my arch enemy frolicked through the pasture of anonymity and insanity.
I dragged out a chair, sat, and crossed my ankles on his desk. I kept my tone conversational and hoped he wouldn't realize I was itching to kill something.
“Busy around here these days, huh? Lots of folks upstairs, business booming, that sort of thing. By the way, Rainer, can you tell me where I can find this Iago character?”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“Well, hun, I can't tell you anything.”
“It's for the boys,” I said. Killing Iago would be for them, sorta.
“No can do, Quark baby.”
“Sure you can. You can do anything, Rainer. That's why you're my hero.”
“I can't give you a mutt's address, especially his. He's trouble.”
“Oh? I hadn't noticed. I only want to talk to him about some of this theories, pick his brain a bit.” Pick it with a baseball bat. Rainer spun in his chair and stared at me like a God-appointed disciplinarian.
“No.”
“How about any surveillance footage you might have discovered from the night of my home invasion? I’d like to see how the mutt got past the security walls. I won’t do anything nasty, I swear, but I need to prevent further intrusion.”
“Kaidlyn, liste
n to me: no. I'm not giving up one of my people when you're in such a mood.”
“What mood?” I feigned innocence.
“You're carrying, like, five guns. That's definitely a mood.”
“At least give me a full name.”
“Nope.” He shook his head.
“The name of someone who might maybe know a neighbor who might—”
“Kaidlyn! No. What if Iago came asking for your name? Do you think I would give it to him?”
“Apparently, he already knows a great deal about me. He sent a fucking dog assassin to my door, remember? And I'm standing in the dark with my cock in my hand, so to speak, pants pulled down or whatever while my friends prepare for war. Your misplaced loyalty comes at a shitty time.” I folded my arms over my chest. “After all this, you're picking Iago over me?”
“Don't try to twist my integrity into a game.”
“Sometimes your intelligence is inconvenient,” I said, exasperated.
I collected the epic, heavy book and left. By the time I hit the freeway, the sunrise was bright enough that I slid on sunglasses to prevent myself from squinting to sleep.
Fallen businesses and empty lots cluttered the skyline. I drove out of south Red Sector and paused where a demolition crew with yellow hard hats chipped away at a half-crumpled apartment complex.
The city underwent constant beautification to convert the empty slums into greatly needed cemeteries. Scavenger drones flew constantly, scouring the city and nearby wilderness, spying on the living while gathering bones. The old remains were rarely identified, but Big Fed didn’t burn them because that’s what happened to the monsters’ waste. Humans needed to be buried, a frivolous yet unquestionable segregation. To be fair, the cemeteries were beautiful.
For a moment, I sat in the truck and watched the men working the ruins like ants running over the detritus of picnic leftovers. They’d pull up all the dead flesh and replace it with something pretty. A little cosmetic surgery to make the world prettier.
As if that would fix anything.
I put the truck in gear and drove.
Chapter 9
I held two gym memberships: one at Crueger’s for conditioning and one at Clifford’s for combat skills. Clifford mastered a smorgasbord of disciplines including Kenpo, jiu-jitsu, judo, and more. I didn’t visit his place so much anymore, most because it was a pit of steamy testosterone and, at the end of the day, I had tits.
It is what it is.
Clifford’s dojo sat on the eastern side of a lot next to a swap meet and a butcher shop. His place was huge, run-down, clean, and peaceful. Black rubber mats covered the floor. The support beams were wrapped in mats so no one bashed their head open. Colorful stacks of Olympic weights lined the walls, sectioning off a dozen canvas punching bags. It wasn't a place for show-boaters or hot heads. Clients didn’t come to Clifford's to play, but to work hard sweating, bleeding, blackening eyes, and earning muscles that ached for days.
The man—mutt—in question gleamed with sweat, his cotton tank damp. His bloodline ran from the South Pacific Islands, and his body—yeow. Lithe, predatory gait. Hardcore masculine with superb heavy eyelashes. His wet hair was short enough that no one would get a grip on it. He gave the punching bag a good thrashing and moved ceaselessly around the bag like a shark in a feeding frenzy.
I walked to the edge of the mat, as far as I could go without removing my boots, and watched him with a mixture of admiration and trepidation. That right cross was wicked. If he rampaged, the collateral damage would be massive.
He finished a combination with a knee to the canvas bag's gut, then turned.
“A little early for training, isn’t it, Kaid?”
“I’m not here for that.”
“Good. You look like shit, and I’d hate to take advantage. Now, why are you staring at me like that?”
“Like how?”
“Like I ate your kitten.” He offered a sexy smile. “And not in the fun way.”
“You know who I am?” I said.
His mood swung like a pendulum from flirty and jovial to sinister and alert. His jaw thickened ever so slightly. If I didn't know what to look for, I would have missed it. He blinked, and the tone disappeared from his face. His body, however, lurked with tension.
“Everyone knows who you are, Princess. Pride of the bureau and all that glorious celebrity nonsense.”
I sighed and held out the tins. “Rainer sends his regards.”
He stared quietly, nostrils flaring. Scenting me. How many times had we touched each other on the mat, in a clasp or with fists, grappling, sweating—had we bled, either of us? The disease was contagious to various, unpredictable degrees. Had he ever leaked contaminant on me?
I wagged the tin emphatically.
“You have to be shitting me,” he said. “Is this a trick?”
“Unfortunately, no. C’mon. I’m not nearly that clever.”
“How are you acquainted with Rainer?”
He didn’t take the tin, so I lowered my arm. “He’s a popular guy.”
“Either you did something bad and he’s blackmailing you, or you need something he’s got.”
“A bit of both.”
“Are you currently thinking about shooting me?”
“No,” I lied. “I didn’t realize you take Xen.”
“You mean you didn’t know I was a mutt.”
“I thought your tone was off, but assumed it was only pot.” I narrowed my eyes. “Ever see a mutt with the munchies? Not pretty.”
He wiped his nose and shrugged. “I need something extra for sparring Fridays. Everyone bleeds on Fridays.”
“Should skip the classes this week. Saturday is a full moon.”
“Can't start skipping. People will notice.” His brown eyes tracked me as I extended two tins. “If this is entrapment, I’ll chew through you before they put me down.”
“You can try.”
“This is so…”
“Ludicrous? I know. Gonna make me hold these forever?”
The cords in his thick neck grappled and breath fluffed up his chest. A million things could topple the domino, push the disease to consume him, and cause a shed. He wouldn’t lay down; he would die violent. I knew what silver could do to a wolf. I didn't want to see his mutt. Seeing it meant killing him.
He took the tins. His hands wore a beautiful shade of almond. His fantastic forearms brandished cords of thick muscle.
“How recently have you shed?”
He chuckled. “Pleading the fifth, Kaidlyn.”
“If you ever need to, there's a panic room...”
“The bunker? Naw.”
“Why not?”
“Not a fan of certain mutts.” He shrugged a cannonball shoulder.
“Like Erik?”
“You know Erik?”
“A bit. He's not always there.”
“The smell of him makes me hostile. Makes me want to shed fast and tear him up.” His lip pulled back from his teeth. His amber eyes swirled with rich hues, reminding me of stiff whisky illuminated by a roaring fire. Alpha male competition, or something deeper?
“Maybe Erik isn't all bad?” I said, digging.
“He's a thug.”
“I’ll concede he does have thuggish ways on occasion.”
“They're all thugs, or nearly. They gather like a bunch of jocks for a keg party, acting like there's nothing wrong with them, that they're invincible. His kennel will get killed off eventually.”
I didn't say anything. Erik and I weren't on the best of terms. He didn't like that I killed his rampaging mutts, and I didn't like that he couldn't control his kennel. I returned my thoughts to the man before me.
“Rainer is a good guy. He'll do right by you.”
Clifford nodded. He bent and gathered some bills tucked under the mat. He handed payment to me. Hot, damp fingers tapped against mine. I suppressed a shudder and resisted wiping my hand on my pants. L-strains weren’t known to pass through any avenue other than blood,
but his skin burned mutt-hot.
“You know you can always come back and train with us anytime. The boys miss you.” He fingered his knuckles, checking for loose ends on the tape.
“Other than Friday fights, anything bothering you lately?”
He frowned. “Are you my psychologist now?”
“Maybe.” Strangers were in town, mutt conflict ignited across the city, and Xen couldn't fix everything. “I'm working a riddle.”
“An FBHS riddle?” he said.
“Nope. Just me asking.” I watched his face, but he didn't believe me. Didn’t trust me. Had no reason to. I sighed and sat on a wooden bench beside the mats.
“I found myself tangled up with Rainer due to my love for blacklisted literature. Then I fell deeper into the underground when I adopted a survivor named Davey. Life is a briar patch, you know? Easy to stumble into the labyrinth, harder to find your way out of the maze.”
“How does that reconcile with your habit of killing mutts?”
“Turns out I prefer to shoot them when they’re homicidal monsters trying to eat an entire school bus full of kiddy-steak.”
“Huh.” He grunted, whiskey eyes flashing. “What does FBHS think of your activities?”
“The bureau encourages employees to volunteer in our local community.”
He smiled. “Right.”
I shrugged. “You've got my number.”
“In case I need some silver in the noggin?”
“Or whatever.”
“Fine.” He smiled. “It’s kinda nice to meet someone more screwed than me.”
“Thanks.”
“Don't take any shit, huh?”
I nodded. He returned to the canvas punching bag. I watched his movement with adoration. The man was a good fighter, crazy strong, and a dozen types of attractive, but he fought a disease I'd never truly understand.
Someday, maybe soon, I would have to kill him.
It would be easier than he’d expect. He had seen me fight on the mat, all fair and noble-like: he didn't know about me and guns in the real world. No tap out, no sportsmanlike rules. If I had to kill him, I'd do it fast, sudden, and no closer than I needed to be. I'd look into his eyes and pull the trigger and pile his death on the heap of graves I carried with me.
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