Chapter 11
Edwina
Utter silence surrounds us as we resume the trip down the dark road. Frankly, I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to Hank’s confession. With joy? In all fairness, I’ve had my suspicions about him for quite some time. He gave himself away when he moved his belongings into my house after Cash left town. Then Hank started showing up unannounced like he lived there.
It’s not like you minded.
This thing between us was just supposed to be about stroking our needs. Two lonely beings reaching out for a little companionship. Now that Hank’s spread his cards on the table, am I supposed to show my hand?
Would that be such a bad thing?
“Angel, talk to me,” he urges. “I didn’t say those words for you to pull away from me.”
I side-glance at him. It would be so easy to let myself fall for Hank, but I just can’t. I’ve been down that road before. Only misery resides there. “I don’t know what ya want me to say.”
He shakes his head as if dismissing my words. “Forget it. Tell me more about your past.”
I start to speak, but the view in the rearview mirror distracts me. The same car has been following us for the last hour.
“As much as I’d like to bore ya with my history, now isn’t the time. We have company.”
Hank looks over his shoulder. “Shit!”
“Three raggedy-looking guys. They remind me of Elijah Ryder’s sons,” I say with complete calm.
“Not his sons. More like members of his crew.” Hank’s head whips around. “You can see them this far away?”
“My eyesight is as good as yours, if not better.” I try to focus on the road ahead. “There are three of ‘em. We’re evenly matched.”
“How the hell do you figure that?” Hank is bouncing around in his seat as he constantly checks over his shoulder. Fingers dancing on his thighs reveal his nervousness.
I ignore his frantic movement. Better to focus on a course of action. “The driver is mine, cher. Your beast can handle the other two.”
“You have a weapon?” he asks.
“Yes, but I won’t need it.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. My pulse quickens while my mouth salivates. It’s the thrill of the hunt—piercing flesh, taking souls, imbibing the life-giving fluids—motivating me. To be honest, it’s the only thing I’ve enjoyed about being undead. “There’s a rest area a mile ahead. A perfect spot to take care of our guests. Be ready or get out of my way.”
Hank’s mouth hangs open. Whatever retort he has for me dies on the tip of his tongue.
Ryder’s men follow us to a rest area—closed for construction—like sheep to slaughter. I lower the window and inhale deeply. Hank tilts his head to the side and sniffs the air too.
“Humans,” we say in unison.
I add, “This will be easy.”
Hank pulls out a gun, checks the magazine, and clicks it back into place. “Don’t put shit past Ryder’s men.”
My fangs descend while my heart ricochets in my chest. The thought of taking lives excites me. These thrilling moments—right before my monster leaps—I relish. It’s the only time I feel something. Being undead is a curse not only of the soul but also the emotions governing it. Most of the time I’m completely numb. Then there are those rare times, like now, where I’m allowed to experience one of two emotions—both intense and all-consuming. The first is pure hatred and the other is unadulterated love.
Hank and I exit the vehicle at the same time. I reach down to my boot and remove the antique silver dagger.
His eyes go to the heavily decorated weapon. “Where did you get that?”
“Just a little something I picked up,” I tell him. Somehow I don’t think Hank would appreciate hearing the story of how I ravaged a German store owner simply because he refused to sell me the item. My fingers grip the gargoyle-covered hilt tight. It’s my prized possession, infused with enough magic to take down any supernatural who gets in my way. The poison within the blade does a nice job of ending humans as well.
This is not an occasion, however, to be considerate of Hank’s sensibilities. Instead, my eyes drift over to Ryder’s men who look like they’re all related. All three of them sport the same stringy hair in need of washing, overly tattooed bodies—also in need of bathing—along with sagging jeans and ill-fitting T-shirts. The tallest man is the one I noticed behind the steering wheel.
Mine.
“Elroy, think we gonna have a little fun tonight,” says a man with a beer gut and a few missing teeth. The body odor, like a rutting dog who’s pissed himself a few times, wrinkles my nose. I choke back the bile rising up my throat.
Hank responds dryly, “Ain’t that kind of party fellas. You need to get back in your car and let Elijah know the game’s over.”
Poor Hank. He’s always the diplomatic officer of the law. These men aren’t looking for peace talks. I’ve read their thoughts. They’re here for information and lives. Won’t they be surprised when I’m the one doing the gathering?
Elroy, the tallest man, moves closer to me. Body funk mixed with stale tobacco hit me and bring back recently surfaced memories. Too bad. I won’t be dining tonight. Almost time to strike.
Ten…nine…
Elroy reaches for my arm.
Stay calm.
Eight…seven…
“She’s gonna be easy,” he says and makes the mistake of touching my face.
In a flash, I grab his hand and yank. The bones in Elroy’s wrist pop, and he screams. His hand droops at the end of his arm. Elroy drops to his knees and cradles the useless limb.
Gravel crunches behind me, snatching my attention. I pivot on my heel and witness the other two men reach for weapons tucked into their waistbands. From the corner of my eye, I notice Hank going for his gun, but I’m faster. I lift my hand and twist my fingers. The necks of Ryder’s men snap in unison.
Hank glares at me but keeps his hand on his gun.
Pointless.
I return his icy scowl. “Vampires don’t play with our food,” I joke—a directed jab at Hank’s beast—before turning back to Elroy writhing on the ground.
I crouch in front of the man. He sneers at me and utters through gritted teeth, “You gonna pay for that, bitch.”
“Not before ya do.” I twist my fingers again and listen to the bones crumbling in Elroy’s wrist. “Now, we’ll have us a little chat. I’m going to ask questions, and ya going to answer them.”
“Not happening,” he snarls.
I lock eyes with Elroy’s and stare into his close-set smoky pupils. Black tendrils from his soul reach the surface, and I speak directly to his mind, bending his thoughts.
“First question. Why are ya following us?”
“On a mission from Ryder.” He grits out the words through clenched teeth. “He wants Richards to pay for his crime.”
Hank and I figured as much. “Who else is working with Ryder?”
“Captain Miller and Lucas Duquette.”
“Dammit!” Hank exclaims. Gravel scatters beneath his feet as he kicks the dirt.
So far, Elroy has only confirmed what we know. This line of questioning is worthless. One more attempt before I take his pitiful life. “Does Ryder have anything to do with Tyson Richards?”
Elroy’s pupils widen. “The MMA fighter? Yeah. Dumb fucker got himself a nice gambling debt. Ryder made sure Tyson got a one-way ticket to the PFC.”
Hank yanks the man to his feet, breaking my spell.
I stand up. Before I can speak, Hank delivers a blow across Elroy’s face.
We don’t have time for a damn pissing contest.
“Humanum est mori,” I chant.
Elroy gasps before crumpling to the ground. The air hums around us as I call forth more magic. Spreading my fingers, the men glow bright orange and then burst into flames. The putrid smell of burnt flesh fills the air.
Hank stands there with his mouth hanging open.
“Get in the car, Hank. We need to go.” I head to the driver’s side.
He steps into my path. “No. I got this.”
Rolling my eyes, I think this is not the moment for a show of testosterone. It’s also not the time to go toe to toe with Hank. Conceding, I walk around the car. As soon as I’m in the seat, Hank slams the door and jams the car into gear. The engine revs. A plume of ash and dirt trails behind us as the car peels out of the lot.
I hold my words until we’re a few miles away from the rest area. “What’s eating ya?”
“Was that little display back there necessary?”
“I did what was needed. First rule of the BlackGuard is to never leave witnesses or evidence.”
“You’re not with the BGS anymore!” he screams.
“Don’t matter!” I shout back. “My way got ya information, and ya didn’t have to raise a paw.”
Hank glances at me with a grin spreading across his face. “Did you really just say raise a paw?”
“I did,” I answer with a laugh and replace the dagger in its sheath. “Ya forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says.
“Then why are ya angry?”
“I’m not angry. Shocked might be a better word for it. Not too long ago you were telling me you weren’t strong. Then you go and single-handedly take out three men.”
Point taken.
I clear my throat. “But I warned ya that I was a monster.”
“No. Never a monster. You are a force, and I pray I never do anything to get on the wrong side of it.”
Unfortunately, I can’t make promises. Monsters act on their own. Time to change the subject. “Tell me what is this PFC Elroy mentioned?”
Hank scrubs a hand over his face and exhales loudly. “The letters stand for Paranormal Fight Club. It’s an underground group of fighters run by Damien Duchamp.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Duchamp tried organizing a club in Falls Creek about a year ago,” Hank clarifies. “We ran his ass out of town.”
“That must have been when Elijah met him,” I ponder.
“Possibly,” Hank mutters.
“What did Elroy mean by a one-way ticket?”
Hank steers the car toward an exit. “My worst fear, Angel. The only way out of the PFC is by death. Either kill or be killed. If you’ve been targeted, then your only way out is in a body bag.”