Flesh and Blood

The creature screeched and clawed at the ground, trying to free itself.

Creek pulled a knife from his boot and strolled toward the thing stuck, buglike, on his halm. With one hand on the quarter-staff, he planted his boot in the middle of the vampire’s back. Kid couldn’t have been more than twenty, twenty-one when he’d been turned. But that kid was long gone, replaced by a parasite.

‘Nothing personal,’ he muttered, and drove the blade down into the creature’s neck. He jerked the blade toward the ground, crunching through bone and cartilage with a few deft cuts. The remains went to ash moments after he’d severed the spine. He wiped the knife on his jeans, then tucked it away, snapped the halm closed, and retrieved a small pouch from the interior pocket of his leather vest. A pinch of hawthorn powder went over the ashes, and they burned away like a lit fuse, leaving no trace of the kill. He did the same to the first one on his way back to the fire escape.

Fringe were good practice, and he’d need it to protect Chrysabelle and the ring in her possession from the noble vampire currently hunting her. At least until he convinced the comarré to turn the ring over to him. From the dossier he’d read, Tatiana was a tough customer and could not be allowed to possess the ring, whatever its powers were. Must be something else. The Kubai Mata wanted it badly enough to free a murderer from prison and put him to work.

Despite what they’d authorized him to do, he wouldn’t take the ring by force. He’d never use force against a woman. He would feel Chrysabelle out, see if she was open to giving the ring up. In theory, the KM were the good guys. Giving them the ring shouldn’t be such a hard thing to do. He leaped, snagged the bottom rung of the ladder, and climbed back to the platform.

From there, he swung his booted feet through the open window and back into the loft. In the meantime, he’d live up to the rest of the KM credo and protect the citizens of Paradise City from the monsters now living among them and the ones that were yet to come.

When he wasn’t getting to know Chrysabelle better, that was.

Doc missed the growl and hum of the old airboats, but there was something to be said for the silent running of the carbon fiber blades and electric engines of the newer environmentally mandated boats. He notched the throttle back as he swung around an island of trees. The boat lost its plane, the air beneath it disappearing as the boat slowed and made contact with the water again. Ever since the run that had gotten him cursed, he hated the Glades. Hadn’t been out here since. There were mostly two kinds of people who lived in the Glades: those with a rightful claim to the land, like the Seminoles, and those looking to hide. His business was with the latter.

The cluster of houses, glass and steel boxes on stilts, broke the horizon line like jagged teeth. Strong morning sun glinted off the buildings. He adjusted his sunglasses. Even with his pupils narrowed to slits, the combination of glare off the water and unfiltered daylight was murder on shifter eyes this early in the a.m.

He approached the houses and grudgingly gave the witches props for living out here. Hard to sneak up on someone who had an unadulterated view in every direction. Not to mention the local inhabitants who did a damn fine job of keeping most people out to begin with. One of those inhabitants, a fifteen-foot gator named Chewie, lounged on the dock of the house he was headed toward, soaking up the morning sun like a teenager on spring break.

Doc’s back teeth ground against each other. Hated the Glades. He eased the boat toward the dock and got to his feet. Aliza’s air-boat sat beneath the house, out of the elements. He wouldn’t be getting that close yet. He reached into the bag at his feet, pulled out the chickens he’d brought, and dangled them in Chewie’s direction.

‘Come and get it, you overgrown suitcase.’

Chewie’s lids cracked open. Doc tossed the chickens in the opposite direction of the boat, and the gator slipped off the dock with a splash and disappeared into the black water.

The sound of a pump-action shotgun being cocked froze Doc where he stood. He lifted his hands. ‘I’ve got good reason for being here.’

‘Then start talking,’ Aliza spat. ‘My finger itches. And there better not be anything untoward in those chickens.’

He looked up. Aliza stood on the second-level porch, glaring down at him from the shadows of the eaves. Her lack of pigment made her look like a ghost, reminding him again why he’d come to see her. ‘The chickens aren’t drugged. I’m here because I want to fix things with Evie.’

‘Hard to talk to stone.’

He sighed. ‘I mean I want to help make things right.’

The shotgun came down half an inch. ‘How?’

‘There’s got to be a way to turn her back, right? I want to help.’ With hands still lifted, he splayed his fingers. ‘Whatever it takes.’

‘Why now? Why after all these years?’

He’d been hoping to explain things in a calmer, more rational manner. Not that that had ever been Aliza’s style. ‘I have a friend who’s in trouble and you’re the only one I know who might be able to help her.’

Aliza snorted. ‘Figures you’d want something in return. Why should I help you?’

‘You shouldn’t.’

She was quiet a moment. Hard to argue with truth, apparently. ‘What did you do this time?’

‘Nothing.’ Something splashed in the water to his left. He almost didn’t stop a wave of revulsion from rippling through him.

‘Then why does she need help?’ She peered at him. ‘What are you cooking?’