Bait and Bleed

by Elizabeth Blake

“What about the god-plague stuff?” I said. “I thought he had magic.”

  She smiled a wicked grin. “Don't be so worried.”

  I hated how she could smell my doubt. We trailed into a remarkably undamaged master bedroom.

  “You didn't ask how I knew Sigurd didn't do this,” she said.

  “Okay, how? You trust him a bit, don't you?”

  “No, I tapped his phones.” She walked into her bedroom, strolled to the large closet, and pulled open the doors. She peered inside, hands on hips, looking for something she wanted to give me. I wandered over to the bookshelf. Half the titles were in Russian or Japanese. I said, “Do you speak Japanese, too?”

  She nodded. “French, and a bit of Mandarin. Czech, Italian, Hungarian, Serbian, Portuguese...” I didn't know if that was the end of the list or if she was done talking. She gave me a shirt and a pair of jogging pants, soft and smelling of lavender. “To sleep in.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I'm not sleeping here.”

  “Of course not, we'll find a hotel.”

  “I have things to do at home.”

  She blinked and cocked her head like she didn't believe it.

  “I don't sleep well in strange places.”

  “I cannot convince you to go with us tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  “Very well. I must at least walk you out. What if your vehicle is damaged, or assassins lurk in the shadows?”

  “Don’t be over-dramatic,” I said, worrying about bullet holes in my truck. I hurried through the cinders of the ruined living room. Svetlana shuffled after me and reached my side by the time I exited the house. We circled the truck.

  I gasped. “Bullet holes!”

  Her night vision was far superior to mine, and she said, “No real damage. No leaking fluids.”

  “Great.” I sighed. Brutus could fix it. “G'night then.”

  “Not so fast, ljubonvnik.”

  “What?”

  “I am going with you.” She climbed into the passenger's seat.

  “Uh...no. No, you aren't. Why would you?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” she repeated. “And tomorrow you will say you are fine, and when hell has bubbled into your world, you will also say you are fine. I know better. You smelled of unpleasant things before you came here, before this safe place was attacked. You are upset, and I will stay with you tonight.”

  “I am not upset!” I said. She buckled her seat belt and waited for me to drive. Unbelievable! Crazy woman thought she could barge into my life, muss it up, and order me around. Well, I wasn't taking it anymore. Arms akimbo, I glared. “Hold on, little miss sweet cheeks—”

  “Get in so we can discuss what to do with this Iago character.”

  “Now we’re talking.” I set the SAW with the other weapons, hopped in the truck, and rubbed my hands together. “Please tell me we get to kill him.”

  Unlike me, she actually knew who the guy was. Even if we didn't come to an agreement, I might glean enough information to find him on my own.

  “Drive,” she said. I did. She pulled her tangled hair into a ponytail. “We will kill him. Publicly.”

  “Huh. We should rethink the last bit.”

  “He has been stealing normies and converting them into wolves, making an army of his own, and leaving a mass grave of failures.”

  “I suspected as much. Why didn’t you do something sooner?”

  “We only recently found the dumping site. Contamination for fun, for the purpose of building a hoard of disposable, sick mutts…” Her teeth clacked together with rage. “It is a vampire’s idea. They breed humans like stock, slaves like cattle, and relics become nothing more than trophies.”

  “Slaves? Relics?”

  “Yes, Kaidlyn. Let’s not stray from the topic by discussing the seedy underground habits of the earth’s most loathsome creatures. We can assume Iago is in league with the bloodsucking leeches, who undoubtedly bankrolled tonight’s entertainment. A filthy business. I could permit the noble struggle of mutt against mutt, but I will not tolerate vampiric meddling.”

  “Racist,” I said. She ignored me.

  “Wolves need to make it clear these tactics will not be tolerated. The wolves of Phoenix already know Iago is a manipulative thug, and they will recognize why we must kill him. To that end, he must be killed by a mutt. Not by an agent, but by one of his own.”

  “Jesus. So how do I help?”

  “You can be present to make a statement and send a good message. When I kill Iago and you do not shoot me (and I expect you to refrain from shooting me), we promote the idea that wolves have the right to live so long as they behave.”

  “Right. Then the FBHS will have you silver-stuffed. Not a good plan.”

  “Can we stop for coffee?” She pointed at a fast food place. Coffee, regardless of the quality, would be welcome. We went through the drive-through, quiet until we pulled away.

  “You don't know what going public could mean. As soon as they see your face, you'll forever be targeted. A dozen other countries will figure out who you are and want you extradited to their country. A political struggle will ensue, and you'll be treated like shit until someone finally gets to claim you. Then, you'll be killed. Your kids will be found and destroyed.”

  “If I appear with a wolf's face, they’ll have no human likeness to research.”

  “You'll be shot dead before you get a chance to kill Iago.”

  She smiled. “There are ways to move things which should not be seen.”

  I narrowed my eyes. She was remarkably cheerful given everything that had happened. I sipped mediocre coffee and thought about her proposal. It would never work. The first hundreds of wolves who fought for their rights would become martyrs, pure and simple. People weren't ready to talk about these sorts of things. All civilians knew were the massacres they saw on television.

  “Killing him in a quiet, confined place is always a way to go,” I said.

  “He should die for a reason.”

  “I don't like him and he's dangerous. It’s reason enough for me. He targeted Clifford because he knew no one would stand up to him, and he wanted to make certain I saw the bloody result. His lazy, enterprising ass found a sugar daddy to fund his revolt, which makes him repulsive. He is a bully among thugs, and he has some silver coming to him.” If I got to Iago before Svetlana, I would end him simply. “Where will we find Iago? And when do you want to do it?”

  “You'll be told when the time comes,” she said.

  Jesus. Everyone was too hush-hush about this guy. Who could I squeeze for information? I had plenty of mutts to interrogate. Biscuit! Cute as a virgin button and likely to do anything for someone with boobs. Not his fault. He was young, maybe sixteen years-old. If I couldn't be charming enough (a likely possibility) I could encourage him with silver.

  “Kaidlyn,” Svetlana said.

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you plotting?”

  “Nothing. Sheesh.”

  “And you expect me to believe that?” She smirked. “What are you thinking?”

  I smiled, delighted to turn the tables. “I'm not telling.”

  She chuckled and drank her coffee. I parked the truck in my garage and slithered out. Svetlana said, “Your ribs sound loose. Want help?”

  “Back off, doc.”

  I limped inside and set Slugger on the counter. Before I even turned on the lights, Zelda stood on my porch and pounded on the door. I answered, opening the door a smidge.

  “Lurkers!” She raised a battle fist. “Men, lurking! And not the usual PETA folks, I don't think. They parked outside and waited for two hours before they gave up! I wrote down their license plate. Almost called it in, but thought you should decide what to do with it on account of everything that's been happening here.”

  “What were they driving?” I said.

  “An ice cream truck of all things!” she said. “The nerve! I was suspicious and went over to buy
a Popsicle—”

  “You didn't,” I groaned. Zelda could have gotten herself killed. A refrigerated truck was definitely suspicious. They had come for me and I missed my chance to blow their brains out.

  Zelda wasn't impressed either. “And they told me, quite rudely, to go away. They were considerably impolite with their language.”

  “Not to be preachy, but here's a life lesson; don't walk up to creepy people who loiter in vans.”

  “They could have at least apologized for not having ice cream in the truck.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Middle-aged white American males.” She handed me a piece of paper with a license plate number written in pink marker. “They looked like church-going gents, but there was something creepy about them.”

  “Thanks, Zelda. You're wonderful for keeping an eye out. Next time, call the cops, okay?”

  “Well, I called the only person I could think of…”

  “Oh, god, Zelda! Who? Who’d you call?”

  “Your father. Hasn't he called you?”

  “We aren’t really that kind of family.”

  “Well, dear, someone must keep him apprised, don’t you think? What if something had happened and we didn't call? And hasn’t he finished his business in Prescott? It'd be horrible letting him think no one cared about him. Now, will you call him in the morning, sweetie?”

  Grinning, I promised. The emptiest promise I ever made. Zelda left with a smile and a skip in her step. As soon as I closed the door, Svetlana stepped out of the shadows.

  “Speaking of lurking,” I said.

  “Your father was here?”

  “And now he's gone. So, there's the couch.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Blankets are in the closet down the hall.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Guess we better get some sleep.”

  “That would be the wise thing to do.” She stared with a gaze like razors. “Perhaps we can talk about your feelings.”

  “Or not.”

  Svetlana reached out and firmly collected my hip in her hand. Her grip was strong and hot, and it pulled me in. And she kissed me. And there I was, letting her. Liking it. Her kiss was dry, as chaste as a French-kiss could be. She had a small mouth, a sleek, hot tongue. The smell of her encased me, sweet, creamy. Her skin felt equally smooth. My tongue met hers, rolling around it. She tasted of coffee, beer, tomatoes, and salt. And heat. Her kiss was neat and snug, mine became warm and rippling. When she pulled away, my face followed her.

  “Oh, God,” I murmured.

  She watched me like she was waiting for me to get angry. When I didn't, she gathered her shirt at the hem and pulled it over her head. New bullet-bumps puckered along her chest and shoulders, but they mightn't scar. Despite plenty of opportunities to see her naked, the sight didn’t lose anything with repetition. My eyes fastened on the erotic blood-lilac shade of her nipples.

  There was, however, a hesitation: what the hell was I doing? Since I was staring at her breast, her lovely flesh, I ventured a guess that I was genuinely aroused by the prospect of Svetlana's tongue, teeth, and flesh, and the thought of her flesh beneath my teeth and tongue. I wanted her.

  Her hands slipped around me and under the shirt, cupping my spine with unbelievable heat. Being touched by her was the most fascinating, necessary thing in the world. But she moved too slowly. I tried to be patient, I swear I did, but I was frantic.

  She must have picked up on my urgency, but her kisses remained leisurely and patient. If she thought this was going to be slow and polite, she had another thing coming.

  I grabbed her by the hard meat of her arms and pushed her. Her calves hit the sofa and she sank down. She smiled in the dark before I kissed her and climbed on. Her hands caught my bottom and cradled me there. We fit well together, better than I expected. Our legs were folded together, and I set neatly against her hips, nestled over the slight rise of her pelvic mound.

  I bit one of those strong female shoulders. After biting, I kissed. After kissing, I licked. Her body became a new terrain where everything deserved to be nipped and tongued. She pulled at my shirt. The holsters got in the way, and I ceased kissing her so I could strip the .45s. Her hands rode up my sides. I shivered. She threw my shirt aside and pulled me forward.

  “Your scars gleam silver in the dark,” she whispered, caressing the puckered groupings of tissue along my belly and ribs. Her mouth found my nipple and my breath flared out of control. She flicked a button on the jeans and her hand slid inside. I was ready to be touched, and I tried to arch toward her, but she had a way of evading me, staying barely out of reach. I wanted to beat her with a stick and make her touch me.

  “Goddamn it,” I told her.

  She pushed me over the back of the sofa, her breasts on my shoulders. With her body curled behind me, I figured maybe she was finally getting around to the good stuff. She slid fingers along me. I was so wet. With tiny flicks of her fingers, she brought me panting and trembling into an explosive orgasm faster than I could have done it myself.

  Somewhere along the line I was no longer supporting my own body weight. Belly down on the hardwood with her nestling on my back, I tried to get some air. My body shuddered with aftershock.

  “Holy god,” I whispered, voice quaking. She chuckled against my neck, a sound so deep and sensual that I wondered how wet she was. My hand journeyed down to explore.

  “Kaidlyn,” she murmured, breath falling hot against my neck.

  She grabbed my arms and pulled me up. I laid on her, our bodies somehow well-tuned and well matched. Her breath came gently on the top of my head and she cupped my face. It didn't feel as awkward as it could have. Actually, it was kind of nice.

  Which was when things started to go wrong. Her body twanged. Everything tightened: spine, muscle, skin, even her breath. I looked up, wondering if I did something wrong. Her caramel eyes flashed dark with something deadly, and she pushed me away.

  Gun!

  I reached under the couch and pulled a Glock from discarded holsters. She sprinted toward the door to investigate. The window broke with a pop and Svetlana stiffened. Pop, pop. She tore at her belly with one hand and grabbed a curtain to hold herself up. Three short darts stuck in her flanks. She jerked four more out of her abdomen. Her ribs and shoulders widened. The beast pushed against her skin as she tried to shed, but another splattering of tranks in the span of a second put her down.

  Tranks, not silver bullets. They—whoever they were—knew who and what she was, and decided to take her alive. They probably didn’t need me. I was making my last stand, and they literally caught me with my pants down.

  Belly to the floor, I used the couch as concealment and scrambled toward the SAW on the kitchen counter. I'd kill as many as I could before they got her.

  Movement sounded outside the living room, the crunching twist of a boot on gravel. I pictured them edging along the front of the house, prepared to enter my home.

  Someone flanked the duplex and entered soundlessly, which I discovered right about the time someone shot me in the ass with a dart.

  Chapter 38

  Something poked me awake. Waking induced vomiting. Rolling over so as not to choke on vomit made me puke more. Every neuron in my brain screamed. The agony pushed me back into a dark unconsciousness, but it didn't last.

  Alarm jolted me out of a blurry dream. A rosy cheeked, creamy skinned girl about thirteen years-old stood near me with a syringe. Her pink princess dress had blood on the hem, and she smiled like something out of a cheap horror flick. I was too sick to panic. I hoped she would put me out of my misery. She tossed an empty syringe over her shoulder and unwrapped a new one. Smiling, she jabbed me again. She emptied most of the syringe before I grabbed her wrist and pulled out the needle.

  “The hell is that?” I said. She showed me the wrapper: adrenaline. Not a bad idea. Whoever nabbed me didn't want to wait for me to wake on my own, which meant I didn't have much time. My heart tripped at a milli
on miles an hour, filling me with the pressure of a steam engine. I rolled away, curling up to cover myself, and puked again. I was doubly naked: no clothes, no guns. Totally helpless.

  Water dripped in the background. I squinted at my surroundings: a hollowed out, cave-like warehouse without windows. Possibly underground? Circular, like a silo. Didn’t feel like anything I recognized.

  My heart sunk.

  An equally naked Svetlana hanged from the ceiling in bright silver chains, wearing a silver collar on her neck. A man sprayed her with a hose, but she didn't stir. He was only a few good paces away. Despite the nausea, I stumbled up and tried to tackle him. Cumbersome, like a drunk monkey. He backhanded me so viciously I flew several yards and fell unconscious again.

  The darkness lagged and I revived to the sound of someone laughing: Svetlana’s voice, but not a joyful sound. I touched my face, found my cheekbone bleeding and mushy. The blow hadn't helped my headache. The villain was strong but didn't feel like a mutt. I struggled to raise my swirling head.

  Svetlana dangled like a piñata in the center of the room. She spoke Russian. The words sounded sweet as a lover's nothing, but her eyes spelled murder. She knew the man.

  I'm not sure how I expected Alexei to look. Maybe something bald and wretched, a creature resembling Nosferatu more than Sigurd. He was tall the way she seemed to like her men but too thin, sacrificing an otherwise good shape. Dressed like he tripped down the hill of time and gathered bits along the way, scarf and kerchief and odd shoes. He sported a Vandyke beard.

  Movies and literature romanticized vampires, but anyone who faced a vamp without glamour should expect primitive, primordial fear. His face would be handsome if it had any semblance of humanity. The unfinished mask remained empty a human heart or soul.

  Svetlana was my best chance of getting out alive, but she was chained to the ceiling with vomit splattered at her feet. Not a hopeful situation. The only visible door was twenty meters behind Alexei and Svetlana. I could not run. I didn't have the juice. Could barely contemplate standing.

  While I looked around, halos fell from my murky vision. Maybe if I stayed on the floor and rested, I could gather enough strength to make another go at the vampire. But how do I kill the creature without a gun, fire, or a stake? This was a horrible time to wing it. Svetlana saw I was conscious. She didn't draw any attention to me, but she switched to English.