Witch Gone Viral

by Sami Valentine

  Kristoff, already leaning forward between the front seats, was too close. His forearm flexed from under his rolled-up flannel sleeve as he braced it against her chair. He tilted his head. “You don’t want me to meet your friends?”

  “No,” Quinn confirmed shortly as he parked in the small lot adjacent to the corner bar.

  “Come on, I blend in.” Grinning, Kristoff leaned back in his seat, arms rising to rest behind his head. He looked like he had put on a hunter costume—dark jeans and red flannel over a white tank top. “I thought we were a team.”

  “We don’t want them to know that.” Red stepped out of the car to follow Quinn around the building to the Pump House, LA’s oldest hunter bar in Downey.

  Downey had been sucked into the Los Angeles metropolis but in its heyday, the city had been the birthplace of the Apollo Space program. Dusty models of rockets, NASA memorabilia, and portraits of JFK still decorated the walls of the Pump House in tribute. Hunters glanced over as they sipped beers at the tables and booths.

  She pulled her blessed silver cross necklace out. In a hunter’s bar, they didn’t have covers. They had tests like the small mirrors set up by the doorway and suspicious locals who liked to see if you sizzled from silver. Bars like the Pump House were the crossroads of gossip for her kind. The same went for supernatural sanctuaries like the Pandora Hotel, except they could—and would—put a rowdy demon down here. They didn’t have a fancy spell to kick out the riffraff; hunters did it the hard way.

  If the Dague was going viral, maybe the rumblings had hit the local hunter’s circuit.

  She had managed to get ahold of Vic earlier, but he hadn’t had much more to add to the case than tracking down more missing souled vampires across the country. Complaining about the brotherhood database glitching on his account, he said he would borrow someone else’s password. Lashawn had pulled him off the phone soon after to watch a movie. It sounded like his time with his brother was going well enough that she skimmed over the trouble with Lucas and Selene. She didn’t want him to decide to come home early. That left the Pump House for intel. She had suggested the idea to Cora. Fingers crossed it panned out.

  Leaning on the counter by Chuck, Red tried to smile. It felt harder after the last few days.

  The old-timer in the cowboy hat and dungarees puffed his white mustache up as he blew on his coffee. It didn’t matter the hour, she always seemed to find him with a steaming mug in his hand at his favorite stool at the bar. A retired hunter, he always had an ear open for the latest news from the road.

  “Hey, Chuck,” Red said. “Let me get you that next coffee.”

  “A coffee for some answers?” Chuck looked over at Quinn, gaze steely before he shook the vampire’s hand. “Vamper trouble then.”

  “I actually have news for you.” Red lowered her voice even though she knew the word would spread once she left. Chuck doled out his knowledge to any hunter who asked, coffee bribe or not. “The burrowers are raiding. If you have any friends by the Salton Sea, tell them to head back to civilization.”

  “That don’t make a lick of sense.” Lifting his shoulders, Chuck glanced around the bar before focusing back on Red. He leaned closer. “The damn truce keeps our hands tied, but the vamper bosses cull them enough. If it’s not the supreme in Inglewood, it’s the one in San Diego slapping those desert rats down.”

  “They didn’t slap hard enough last time.” Red knew the frustration in Chuck’s eyes.

  The old hunter had retired because he couldn’t work with the vampire establishment even if individuals like Quinn passed his muster. The Brotherhood of Bards and Heroes had its points of dominance, like their academies in London and Tokyo, but it had made compromises to survive, overstretched in a global world. In theory, their alliances with souled supremes made sense… when their allies weren’t wobbling on their thrones. Maybe if hunters had free reign, they would have already cleared out the Burrows. Cora Moon might have been the lesser evil, but Red could see Chuck’s point. Red winced, scratching the back of her neck. “You hear anything interesting lately with the vamps in town? Souled ones too.”

  Chuck stroked his mustache. “Had a feller in here tracking two vamps from Cincinnati to Slab City. Said they had souls before.”

  “Those vampires are dead,” Quinn whispered, scanning the barroom as he leaned his back on the bar.

  A few patrons met his gaze, chins raised in a challenge, as they gripped their pint glasses.

  “I don’t know about the hunter.” Red shook her head, remembering how Evelyn the dominatrix had wielded her wicked axe. It wasn’t likely he would re-emerge from the desert.

  Crack! Flying forward and spinning like a record, the front door of the Pump House landed on an empty table. The wood splinted on impact as the furniture fell over.

  A stout silhouette stood in the threshold. Barrel chested in a crimson and cream Sooners football jersey, a dark-skinned male stepped forward. Souled Sal. Demonic yellow flickered in his brown eyes.

  “Jesus, Sal, it’s called a doorknob,” Chuck yelled, standing. “Where’s the fire?”

  Jaw dropping, Red lifted her hands. Horrifying realization slapped her in the face. “Stay away from him.”

  “Goddamn, it’s the little girl who spooned Cowboy Kurt to death.” Sal laughed. The deep sound rumbled from his big belly. Humor might have crinkled his eyelids, but his eyes were like black ice.

  Quinn stepped forward. “Back up, Sal.”

  Red reached in her hunter’s kit on her belt to pull out a stake. Tucking it under the wrist strap in her sleeve, her heart sunk. Few hunters in the Midwest failed to make a stop in the Oklahoma hunter’s bar where Souled Sal dished up home cooking and kept the local vampire heat away. Judging by the rage brewing in his amber gaze, they’d have to find him a new nickname because he wasn’t souled now.

  “Y’all have to be kidding me. This place doesn’t even have a real kitchen.” Sal gestured to the bar as he walked further inside. He hissed, fangs dripping venom, at the standing hunters. “I kept hearing about LA, how it was going to blow my Okie mind, but now I’m here. What a letdown!”

  “Easy, Sal. I agree. The Skinner is better.” Red raised her hands, glancing at the bartender lifting a shotgun from under the counter. When she had met Souled Sal in Oklahoma City, she had hated vampires. Only Vic’s death glare had made her shake Sal’s offered hand. Later, he’d helped her escape the city alive. It had opened her mind. She knew she wasn’t the only one Sal had that effect on. He had eased the mindless hate she had for the undead, helped her see them as people. Sal had shown her the difference a soul made. If Red could get him out of here, he might just get his own back.

  Beers and tater tots abandoned on the tables, the hunters pulled out stakes, crosses, and handguns. The whisper of weapons on fabric haunted the melody of Bad Moon Rising playing low on the Pump House speakers. Even the painting of JFK in the corner seemed ready to draw a revolver.

  “Hey, this is Sal.” Chuck stood out of arm’s reach between the hunters and the rogue vampire. He held his arms out between the agitated parties. His gruff order turned desperate as he turned to Sal. “Get a grip, old friend.”

  Red kept her eyes on Sal even through the clicking of guns. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to the coast for vacation? I have unlimited minutes on my phone now.”

  “We’re taking this outside.” Quinn strode to the intruder.

  Sal looked Quinn up and down before dismissing him with a withering side-eye. He scanned the bar again, wiping a finger along the bar. His nose wrinkled. “In my place, I make waffles that would satisfy the Queen of England. If she was passing through to kill a ghoul in Tulsa that is.”

  “I’ve had them. They’re the best.” Red bounced on her heels, yanking her thumb toward the crowd. Rough and ready, these hunters had been leashed too long under the supreme’s thumb. They knew something was up with Sal. “Let’s talk in the parking lot before they eighty-six you the hard way.”

  “Wha
t is wrong with him?” Chuck stepped to Red, hissing the question.

  She stuttered. “Um…”

  “I used to be so proud to feed hunters. It’s embarrassing.” Sal grimaced, brushing his shoulders off as if swatting away a disgusting cockroach. “I spent fifty years slapping burgers on a grill. All for hunters too stupid to stay alive long enough for me to learn their fucking names. That was wrong, brother. Now, I’m all right.”

  Quinn tackled Sal into a headlock and dragged him out the door. “Be alright outside.”

  “We’ll handle it. He’s under a spell.” Red lied quickly to Chuck and backed out the door with her hands up. The truth was that the spell was lifted. If hunters knew that souled vampires were turning evil in LA, the truce would fall before the bards in London noticed. It would be open season on the undead in the City of Angels. Before, she might have cheered on that fight. Now, she knew too many vampires that she didn’t want to lose. She raced out of the Pump House to join the two vampires.

  Honks from the street traffic echoed off the stucco. The scent of stale cooking oil followed them as they passed a dumpster.

  “Be cool,” Quinn said, hauling Sal to his feet, a hand gripping Sal’s beefy shoulder. He guided Sal behind the building.

  “They told me what to do, but I just needed to improvise!” Sal cursed and shook his head. He blew a raspberry. “Don’t give me that look, Bloody Byrnes. You’ll know when the change happens to you. It’s like you can’t drink enough, you can’t slash enough. The demon screams to make up for lost time.”

  Quinn flashed fang, growling at Sal. “Shut it.”

  “There are over a dozen hunters in there who’ll be happy to put you down, Sal.” Red kept pace with the vampires, adjusting the stake in her sleeve. “You’re not one of Cora’s. They can stake you even with the truce. No one will care.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Sal reeled forward before he slammed the back of his head against Quinn’s nose. He spun, agile despite his bulk, to kick the other vampire in the chest.

  Quinn fell backwards.

  Sal charged her, his hands gripping her upper arms. “I was supposed to record killing those hunters, but I bet the boss lady will love to see you done in even more.”

  “Sal, we’re buddies, remember?” Pulse pounding in her neck, she gaped at a friend that she barely recognized through the bloodlust. Twisting in his grip, Red tried to reach for the stake under her left sleeve. It was easier than pawing through her hunter’s kit. Her fear-stiffed fingers brushed the leather strap holding the wood to her forearm.

  Sal yanked her wrist back, then choked her with the other hand.

  Quinn, amber-eyed and heavy brow knotted, stepped behind him. Wary, he examined the scene. “Unhand her.”

  “I’ll end this hunter bitch right now, Byrnes. It’ll make me a hero at home. Want her alive? Give me space.” Sal gritted his teeth, glaring at Red. He seethed. “This fool soul nearly got me killed helping you and Vic. It made me kill my own kind. How can I live that down?”

  Kicking Sal between the legs, Red thrust herself backwards and out of his loosened grip.

  His eyes crossed under blinking eyelids. Groaning over his bruised junk, Sal slumped, clutching his groin.

  Red pulled the stake from her wrist strap. “Good thing you’re already dead.”

  Quinn jumped for the moaning male.

  Sal elbowed Quinn before spinning and punching the other vampire in the back. They tussled.

  “Kristoff! Dart him!” Red called. They needed to bag Sal quick. She had seen him hold his own against his elder, Sancha Constanza. Sal wasn’t like most vampires. He never fought humans, only other demons. It made him more dangerous in a fight. He was used to punching above his weight. She palmed a vial of holy water from her hunter’s kit.

  “You called?” Kristoff blurred to a stop, holding a tranquilizer gun, cold concentration on his face. He aimed and fired.

  Sal spun Quinn around, using him to block the blast.

  Head rolling back, Quinn’s legs gave out after the tranquilizer dart hit his chest.

  Sal charged, holding the prone vampire like a battering ram. He tossed the broad-shouldered vampire at Kristoff. Pivoting, he sprinted for her.

  “Fuck!” Red flung holy water in his face, dropped the bottle, and pulled the stake from her left sleeve.

  Grabbing his sizzling cheek with one hand, Sal hissed as his nose burned like acid on impact. He hobbled but kept moving. He side-barreled into her, elbow jabbing into her torso.

  They fell. His bulk pinned her the rough asphalt. Crying out at the crack of her own ribs, Red’s head bounced on the ground. Pain ricocheted through her skull. The stake rolled from her hand.

  Her breath heaved, and her vision sparkled darkly. Hands flapping on her chest, she lifted the cross necklace to burn his face. She reached for the fallen stake by her side. “I’m sorry, old friend.”

  “I’m not.” Sal wrapped his fingers around her throat. Yellow irises glared down at her.

  The well of energy within her beckoned. When she was in mortal danger, the spark of magic often ignited. The magic tingled her fingertips. Usually, her magic didn’t come when she called. This time, it begged. Red gritted her teeth. No. She didn’t need magic to hunt.

  She jammed the stake up into his chest. The awkward angle made her miss his heart. Her curse came out a squeak from her squashed windpipe.

  Sal roared, pulling the stake out, then slamming it into her palm.

  Red tried to scream. It came out a tortured wheeze from her damaged rib cage. The pain ripped through every brain synapse and radiated down to her curling toes in her black sneakers. She scratched at his eyes with her other hand.

  He twisted the stake.

  Mind wild like a feral cat, she hissed in agony, biting her lip to stop another scream.

  Shrieking, Sal disappeared, hoisted into the air by his crimson Sooners jersey.

  Red rolled to her side, panting through her nose as she groaned through clenched lips. She coughed, choking on acid reflux, as her neck and ribs throbbed. The magic called out to her to use it. It was too late. The pain destroyed her focus.

  Mind numb, her vision strobed between the mundane and her spirit gaze. Her chakras flashed like warning sirens to her third eye. Blood gushed around the wobbling stake impaled in the center of her palm. Each trembling movement shot pain through her fingers and down her arm.

  Red exhaled roughly, like she was preparing for birth. Even shallow breaths serrated her raw throat. She bit her lip, blood like copper on her tongue as she pushed herself up with her good palm. Pain exploded in her ribs. Her teeth ground into her cut lip to muffle the scream.

  Fangs out and amber eyes flashing, Kristoff held Sal by the neck. His other hand dug into the other vampire’s chest, palm over his heart. Dark blood pumped sluggishly over his pale fingers, embedded to the knuckle. “Move and I rip it out.”

  “Fucker,” Sal gritted out.

  Taking his hand off Sal’s neck, Kristoff pulled a tranq dart from his pocket in a movement almost too quick to see and slammed it into the other vampire’s neck. His head tilted back. Neck muscles tensed to iron above his red flannel collar. Lips curled up over white fangs. His hand shook as he gripped Sal’s collar. Cold fury darkened his chiseled features.

  Sal slumped.

  Kristoff pulled his hand out of the other vampire’s chest. He wiped his fingers on Sal’s shirt before slamming the other vampire to the ground.

  Trembling, Red watched Sal to see if he popped up.

  The vampire’s head only fell to the side, mouth slackening.

  She whimpered, hating herself for the sound, as she held her wrist. The pain throbbed from the embedded stake.

  Kristoff pivoted, kneeling by Red in a second. His fury had turned clinical, even if his irises still burned amber as he examined the stake in her palm. “I’m going to pull it out.”

  Tears chilling on the apples of her cheeks, Red nodded. She lifted her jacket-cove
red sleeve to her mouth and bit down on the leather.

  He didn’t count. He didn’t brace himself. Without warning, Kristoff jerked the stake from her palm.

  She screamed into her sleeve until the parking lot behind the Pump House faded to oblivion.

  Red woke, jumping in a car seat, restrained by the belt. Her hand tapped the door. Pain jolted through her arm. She cursed as she raised her bandaged palm. “What? Are we at your club?” Twisting, she investigated the backseat where Quinn and Sal sat, passed out and belted in like worn-out kids coming home from an amusement park. The twist made her gag from pain in her ribs.

  Red hissed through gritted teeth. Her vision sparkled. Catching her reflection in the side mirror, her green eyes narrowed at her unbruised neck. She swallowed reflectively, expecting pain, and found only a dry mouth. But her cracked ribs forced her mind blank as she leaned back with a hiss.

  Parking the car in an underground space near the employees-only stairwell at Club Vltava, Kristoff unbelted himself and leaned over the center console. He put his hand on her cheek. “Hey, you passed out. Let me get you inside while my men come for Sal and Quinn. You’re in rough shape.”

  Red didn’t need the reminder. She had seen a lot of fucked up shit in her remembered time, but being staked with her own stake and then watching it get pulled out was near the top. She leaned over in the seat, accidentally trapping his fingers against her cheek and the upholstery. The chill felt good on her flush skin, sweaty from pain. Weakly, Red moved her head to release his digits. “You have any drugs at this club?”

  Kristoff rubbed her thumb on the apple of her cheek as he grinned. “I can get you what you need.”

  “Good because my ribs are killing me.” Ducking her head, Red looked at her bandaged hand. She slumped over from a wave of pain. “And the rest of me isn’t looking too hot.”

  “Why didn’t you use magic?” Annoyance tinged the worry in his tone.