Flesh and Blood

The tallest of the trio postured as a silver sports car coasted down the street. She flicked her long blue hair over one shoulder and sashayed toward the curb in high-heeled boots. The red glow of brake lights lit up the car’s back end. Human curiosity of vampires was hitting a new peak. More and more were coming to believe the fanged monstrosities were real, and those who believed fell into two camps: those who feared the vampires and those who wanted to be vampires. The latter tended to be pale-skinned, fake-fang-wearing sycophants who dressed like they were going to a graveside orgy. What did they hope for? To find a vampire who would grant them eternal life? At the thought, the marks on his back itched.

The car pulled up and idled, the passenger side window rolling down. The tall fringe, so narrow-hipped and muscular Creek wondered if she might actually be a he, approached the vehicle and leaned on the door.

After a few minutes of conversation, the fringe got in and the driver eased away. Creek peeled off from his perch and headed after them, a slow lope at first so he wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Once they were a few blocks away, he poured on the speed and caught up, then slowed again as the car turned down an alley. He followed, as silent as the vehicle’s electric engine.

The car parked and the headlights flicked off, leaving only ambient light to see by, but it was more than enough for him. Anyone who survived the KM rituals got rewarded with a whole heap of amped-up abilities. Speed was one of those. Great night vision, another.

The pair in the car seemed to be chatting. Creek moved closer, keeping low and watching his steps so as not to disturb any debris that might make noise. The john was paying her. How ironic, considering he was about to pay again with his life.

The female stuffed a few bills into her top and laughed, her fangs shining in the moonlight. Time to roll or the man in that car would be a bloodless sack of bones in three … two …

Creek sped to her door. His hood fell back. In a single fluid motion, he whipped out a bolt and yanked the car door open. This close, the crossbow was overkill. She was mid-lunge, fangs bared. She snapped around in his direction, spitting like a wet cat.

‘Hey!’ the human male yelled. He reached for the female. Light glinted off his wedding ring. ‘Get your own—’

Creek sank the bolt into her chest. She screeched, her eyes rounded in shock, then she crumbled into ash. He shook the bolt off. A few plastic fifties clung to the end, pierced through. He pulled them off and pocketed them. The john didn’t deserve them back. He pointed the bolt at the man. ‘You married?’

‘What the—’ The man scowled. ‘Yes.’

‘Kids?’

‘Yeah, why?’

Creek reached through the car and yanked the man halfway out. ‘Because you’re a piss-poor excuse for a husband and father, out here trying to score a little vampire tail. Go home and apologize to your family. Do something nice for them.’

The man nodded, his eyes wide.

Creek tossed him back into his seat. ‘Don’t let me see you here again. I won’t be as merciful.’

The man kept nodding. Creek watched until the car pulled away, hard memories clamping down on him. Too bad no one had ever given his father the same warning. But then, some people only understood brute force.

Doc slouched against the cold white marble wall of the foyer while Mortalis went through the retinal scan that would get them into the elevator and up to Dominic’s penthouse. His jaw ached from clenching it, but Venetian Island oozed luxury like a head wound oozed blood. It worked his last good nerve. Especially since he’d been one of the mules carrying the heavy load that had paid for this palace. Knowing that made every inch of this upscale ivory tower a personal insult, where a visit to Chrysabelle’s didn’t bother him one bit. Maris had paid for her crib via Lapointe Cosmetics, not drugs and fake comarrés and pit matches.

The elevator swooshed open, a wood-paneled, sculpted-carpet coffin. Mortalis held the door while Mal and Chrysabelle got on. The fae looked at him expectantly.

Doc followed, his reluctance increasing with each step. He hadn’t seen Dominic since the trip to Corvinestri, and that was fine with him. Now he had to ask for help from the very man who’d caused his curse in the first place.

Nothing sucked more than needing your enemy’s assistance.

Mortalis moved his hand out of the way, and the doors closed with a soft ping. The lift shot up, smooth as old cognac. Which Dominic probably drank by the bucket. Doc flicked a claw out on his pointer finger and gouged a scratch into the mahogany paneling. Petty and childish, but then leopard-shifters weren’t known for their personal growth.

‘Remember,’ Mortalis said. ‘I go first.’

‘Yeah, thanks, I’d forgotten the other hundred times you told us.’ Doc blew out a breath. Tension crackled along his nerves. This was not going to end well, he could feel it. But whatever it took, he’d help Fi. Or die trying. Maybe he could come back as a ghost, too? Then he’d haunt Dominic. And Aliza. And maybe Mal just for funsies.

The doors opened onto Dominic’s private foyer. Un-freaking-believable. Even Mal whistled. The ceiling was a mural of some gods and goddesses getting their chow on. Gilding covered everything that wasn’t stone or polished wood. Doc snorted. ‘Lemme guess, this is from the early Mafia period of history?’

Chrysabelle glanced at him. ‘Actually, that ceiling is a copy of The Feast of the Gods by Bellini.’

‘Feast, huh? Figures.’ Perfect for a vampire who devoured life like it was his personal porterhouse.