Mercy Blade

CHAPTER 3 She Was Wearing a Red Thong

I recognized the smell now, like wet dog, but rangier, wilder, feral. Them. The pack. All but one of them male. The girl was watching me from the shadows, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, her eyes excited and gleaming and possibly not quite sane. She was a tiny, blond thing with a deep tan, her skin catching the light with a sheen of perspiration. She was loaded down with bling-style jewelry, dressed in a skirt with a tight, spandex waist that left her pierced navel bare, the short skirt belling out around her hips. With it she wore a tight tank and no bra and red platform sandals with four-inch heels. Reaching behind, she gripped the pool table and levered herself up, her feet swinging, sandals flying off and into the darkness. She was wearing a red thong and made sure I knew it. Oh joy.

As the wolf-bitch moved, she stirred the air, and I caught the reek of sex hormones. She was in heat. No wonder she was so demonstrative.

The men I could see all wore jeans and T-shirts. And except for Fire Truck, were barefooted or wore flip-flops. Which was weird until I spotted the boots lining the wall near the side door. I sniffed one last time, scenting them. I had never met a werewolf, but I was meeting them now. Leo hadn’t sent me to meet a vamp and send him packing. He’d sent me to meet a pack of wolves. Without warning and without backup.

These guys didn’t ride down from Wyoming today, which told me the interview footage from this morning—the one where a wolf had accused Leo of the murder of a man named Henri—had been taped, suggesting the wolves had been here longer than a few hours. They’d marked territory and were willing to fight for it.

One of the wolves stepped forward, his feet bare and silent on the painted concrete. I recognized the angry werewolf from the TV. The strawberry blond leader who cussed so much. His movements were graceful, feral, deadly. Around him the others fanned out, starting to form a semicircle. Fire Truck stood in the back, pulling off his boots.

“Jane Yellowrock. Rogue-vamp hunter,” I said to the leader, loosening my knee joints and adjusting my balance. “I was sent to deliver a message. But none of you matches the description.” Pretty wasn’t a term anyone would use for a werewolf.

He slowed his advance at the words and his men stopped dead—not quite the dead immobility of vamps, more like the unmoving quiet of hunting predators. “Rogue-vampire hunter? I have hear’ of such. Human who are licen’ by the bloodsuckers to hunt down those they cannot.” His accent was Cajun, a robust version, words full of harsh Rs and shortened or missing Ts, so that when he spoke it came out, “Rrroguevampirrre hunterrr.” And, “hun’ down dose dey canno’.” An intriguing, rumbling growl. The taped TV interview this morning had been so full of bleeped cussing that I’d had no clue of an accent.

He smiled and I could see the wolf below his skin, all teeth and canine ferocity. “Roul Molyneux,” he said, introducing himself. I had a feeling I was neck deep and sinking fast in vamp politics. Leo had sent me into this, whatever this was. “I am alpha, pack leader of the Lupus Clan of the Cursed of Artemis, of the United States of America.”

Roul wasn’t a big guy—not like Fire Truck, standing in the back of the room, lighting a cigarette despite the no smoking laws—but he was well built, with that full mane of hair and blue eyes, his looks enhanced by the sensation of power that surrounded him, a charismatic command-mode power, something all his, over and above the wolf magic and pack energies. An alpha wolf.

I took in the others at a glance, various mixtures of humanity—wolfanity?—and I wanted to laugh, but figured I might end up dead real fast if they thought I was making fun of them. There were two black guys, the wolf-bitch, two white guys, Fire Truck, a mixed-race block of muscle who might once have been human, and Roul, who was more gorgeous in person than on TV. Three other men appeared in the side doorway, limned by the security lights outside, and there were likely even more I hadn’t seen. Considering the number of bikes parked outside, I was guessing twelve to twenty wolves, all in human form. Not good odds if this went beyond chatting. I had seven shells in the M4, ten rounds in the H&K and one in the chamber, and another six in the ankle holstered gun. The derringer would only make them laugh. I had extra magazines, but if I needed them I was probably dead anyway.

“Vampire hunter don’—” Roul’s eyes narrowed and he sniffed in quick bursts, wrinkling his nose, his neck outstretched like a dog on a scent.

“I smell catamount, I do. An’ ... owl.” He breathed slowly, his face hardening. “And Leo’s blood in your veins. He has fed you to heal, yeah, and his pet shaman too, I’m thinking. You stink of magic, sundry kind.” He sniffed again. “You not human. Yet, you not were, no.”

Beast tightened, claws out, painful in my mind, her body taut and ready. “Not entirely human,” I agreed, controlling the slight shudder of panic in my voice, knowing they would smell any reaction, the faintest fear-sweat. “I don’t want a fight.”

Roul laughed and, at the sound, his men moved forward again, spreading out. As if they had rehearsed, they kicked off their flops. Started stripping off their clothes, throwing them aside with casual abandon. Instant fear thudded through me; I couldn’t catch my breath. There was something primal about a group of men ripping off their clothes, moving toward a woman, no matter how well armed she was. “I just want to deliver my message and go. No blood spilled, no death.” Just an order to get out of town. Yeah, that was gonna make me real popular.

An electric frisson of magic danced along my skin, as if the air was suddenly filled with the ozone of a fresh lightning strike. They were going to change, right here. Right now. My lips pulled back from my blunt human teeth. Beast growled and the sound came from my own lips. One of them laughed and I backed away two steps, a chain wall clinking against my butt.

“I fear we don’ always get what we want,” Roul said.

Great. The guy was a philosopher. Something about the idea of an intellectual werewolf struck me as funny, and, despite the circling wolves, I grinned. Drawing on Beast’s speed and strength, I pulled my Benelli and the H&K, covering the males with a swing of the shotgun barrel, and sighting the 9 mil at the wolf-bitch girl. She didn’t smell dominant, but as the only female present, she had some kind of power. I assumed.

“No we don’t, Roul. So, tell me”—I moved the barrel of the Benelli from one male to the other, pausing on each for a moment before moving on, my emotions settling into battle readiness, cold and empty—“will I get what I want if I fill you all full of silver shot? Is silver deadly to weres, like the myths say? ’Cause I’m loaded for vamp with silver fléchette rounds, and I’m betting they kill your kind like they do the fangheads. Slow, painful poisoning.”

The pack-mates halted as one, midmotion, midstrip, mid-laugh, which told me the silver myths were true. But the pack was nearly in position to attack, and if they did, there wasn’t a dang thing I could do about it until after the fact. I was licensed to kill rogue vampires, not weres. If I killed them, it had to be provable self-defense. I had to have the wounds to back any claim in court. I hadn’t seen security cameras, but if I attacked first and someone was filming, I could have legal charges brought against me. Booger had disappeared. Convenient for him. Not so much for me. “Silver poisoning is a nasty way to die,” I said.

Thoughts danced behind Roul’s eyes like antsy fireflies. He frowned. “I was to meet here for parley, at invitation of ... another.” He jutted with his chin. “You Leo’ courier, I’m thinking. Deliver message what he say.”

At invitation of another? Another what? “Not much to it. Get out of town. You are persona non grata.”

“No.” He showed me his teeth, lips pulled back, nose wrinkling in a dominance snarl. His canines were longer than a human’s and looked wicked sharp. “No’ this time. We not leave. Leo stole much from us when he took our territory. Human law, I’m thinking, give it back to us.”

Again the pack began to close in. I had no room to back away unless I could reach the button to open the metal wall and jump onto the bar. I was being herded or circled, and either one was bad news. I fought down a flight reaction and aimed the shotgun at one male who was already naked, his back bowing and breath coming in pants. The sensation of ants crawling on my skin spread, thickened.

“If we don’ receive permission to enter the city and retake our hunting grounds,” Roul said, “there be a two-pronged consequence, yes?” He watched to see that I was following his words. “As we parley, here and now, in state capital our pack lawyers prepare to file injunction, they do, six, four, t’ree injunction, against Leo and his business concerns. In less than one week, the financial apparatus of all the Mithran’ will grind to a halt. Then, our lawyers, they turn over evidence to human law enforcement, provin’ that Leo Pellissier kill our former alpha. He will be charge with murder, yes? Brought to justice in a human court of law.” He smiled, clearly relishing the thought. “His power base will be destroyed by this pack here, Lupus Pack, utterly, forever. We leave him with nothing.”

“Leo might have something to say about that.”

Roul threw up his hand and the wolves in human form closed in several steps, others now blocked the door. My heart jumped into my throat. Two naked guys were on their knees, backs hunched, taken by the change. The alpha wolf lifted his head, as if readying himself to howl.

Beast had been eerily silent, not bragging that she could take them. Not a good sign. A dozen possible outcomes flashed through my mind with a single heartbeat, none of them ending well for me. “Wait.” I took a chance. “We’re still under parley rules.”

Roul ducked his chin, his lips back, his teeth all pointed, no longer human. “Shhpeak.” I had a feeling that was the only word he could manage at this point, his voice lower and gravelly.

“Since the death of his son, Leo’s been deeply in the dolore. I don’t think he cares what you do to him as long as vampire grief rides him. I’m betting he’s spoiling for a fight, not in a courtroom but under a less than full moon, and he’ll take a lot of you down with him, if it comes to physical battle. He’s powerful.” I remembered seeing a hint of the power of the Master of the City, calling his vamps to heel. “He has the might of all the vamps in the city to draw upon. I honestly don’t think you’ll survive. Even in wolf form.”

Roul swallowed, fighting down his beast. I recognized the struggle. He took another breath. “We ... not go back.”

Without a detectable sign from Roul, the pack closed in. They had spread their attack circle as far as the walls and chain barriers permitted while I stood here and chatted. I should have run, hard and fast. Crap!

Magic permeated the air, prickling on my skin like electricity. Like fire ants stinging. Like a warning of war. Beast growled, low and dangerous, the sound of her anger coming from my mouth.

Three wolves had shifted fully; they stood, ruffs upright and teeth bared. Others were coated with a mist that hovered on their skin, darker than the gray mist of my own change; it was tinted faintly blue, swirling faster than my own change-energies. Looking angry, somehow. These crouched and threw back their heads, a human mime of a wolf howl, but silent, agonized. The three fully changed wolves stepped in front of them, protective. Wolf magic grew, crackling like flames on dry tinder. I couldn’t catch my breath in the electrified air of the bar.

Roul stood before the front windows, only his head and hands changed, wolf claws, doggy-shaped and blunt, but bigger, evolved for grabbing and bringing down big prey. They were all naked, even the girl, crouched in the shadows, on a pool table, turned away from me, halfway through her change, her wolf-bitch-in-heat stench hitting the air like a warning.

I was in big trouble. Thanks to Leo Pellissier, who sent me here to talk.

Six wolves had fully changed and I still didn’t know what to do. There was no getting past them and outside; I couldn’t open fire without it being clear self-defense. Where is the security camera? This is a setup. Has to be. But I didn’t see a camera anywhere.

A black wolf lunged, maw open, slavering. Beast shoved her power into my bloodstream. Adrenaline like fire in my veins. Flight or fight. Time did a little twist and bump. Slowing like cold honey.

I fired the shotgun one-handed. Beast’s strength took the recoil. As it backlashed through me, I fired the handgun at the wolf-bitch, the shots overlapping, but a blurred form dropped from the pool table and was gone. I’d missed her entirely. Closer, the charging wolf yelped, barely heard over the concussive report. Hit in the chest. He flipped back in midair. Dead. The mostly human shape behind him curled in on himself, keening, his magics disrupted by the pattern of silver shot that peppered him as it spread out.

Beast-fast, I fired the M4 twice more, taking down two wolves.

Fired again at a leaping wolf, freshly changed. This one was bigger, stretched out in midair. He took the shell full face. His jaw, teeth, and brains exploded backward. Silver burst into flame in his blood. He fell in a heap at my feet. The others seemed to sense they faced a more deadly opponent than they had expected, and one hit the lights. The place went black except for light through the windows. I crouched into a shadow, knowing their wolf eyes were better in the dark than my human ones, even if I drew on Beast’s vision.

The semiautomatic barked in my hand, hitting and missing as I methodically emptied the magazine at wolves, counting rounds as I fired. The wolves were freaking fast, streaking close and swerving, and I missed most of the time, in the dark. I fired the last two shotgun shells at two wolves silhouetted in the doorways like guards, hoping the silver fléchettes would slow them down. There wasn’t time to reload the M4. I set the shotgun at my feet. Digging one-handed in a pocket. My fingers touched a replacement magazine for the nine mil as I fired the last rounds in the H&K. Three wolves leaped at me. Knocked me to my butt. Claws digging at me even through the armored leather. The magazine slipped away, into the deeps of the pocket. Huge teeth and fangs ripped. Tearing at me through the leather armor. Flinching at the taste of silver rivets and studs. Snarling. Growling.

I rolled and got the magazine out, snapped it into the sidearm, the sound lost beneath concussive deafness. I grabbed for the six-shot from my ankle holster. A wolf came out of the dark. Snapped at my face and I dodged. Fired. Teeth snapped on my ear. The pain was distant, my blood hot on my skin. I got the backup gun free. My brain having trouble with the different firing sequences between pistol and semiautomatic. Muscle memory finally won, and I fired with both hands. But I had a feeling I’d missed almost every shot since the lights went out.

Fangs ripped at my hand. Fingers went numb. The H&K clicked, empty again. I dropped the sidearm. Pulled a vamp-killer. Fired the last two shots with the pistol. Pulled and emptied the two shots in the derringer. I was down to blades. I was a goner. The wolves were too fast, too many. My hands were slick with blood, some of it mine. I stabbed upward, cutting into the belly of a red wolf with amber eyes. Sliced the ham-string of another. Both fell away.

A monstrous wolf landed on me. Knocked out my breath in a grunt I couldn’t hear over my damaged eardrums. Fire Truck. Had to be. His jaws snapped down. At my throat. And met the silver collar. He yelped in surprise, teeth caught in the chain-mail mesh. Jumped back. Ripping the protective necklace from my neck, the rings and the busted clasp caught on one of his canine teeth.

I sliced across the face of a shaggy wolf with Roul’s blue eyes. He danced back out of blade length. And then farther. The movement of the wolves halted, all of them looking up.

I panted, trying to catch my breath. Hurting. And became aware that I wasn’t alone. A slender form landed beside me, silhouetted in the window, poised on the balls of his feet as if he’d dropped from the black ceiling. Another opponent. Crap.

In an eyeblink, I took him in. He stood bent-kneed, two blades drawn, silvered swords, one long, one shorter, but not Japanese in style. Spanish, maybe. He was dressed all in black, top to toe. Lots of silver. More than I wore. Weird what you think in the heat of trying to stay alive and figuring you aren’t going to.

He held the blades in what was clearly a martial position, one blade pointed forward at two o’clock, the other to his left side at his nine o’clock, making small circles, at an angle to the ground. His stance made the wolves his target, not me. I had help. The relief was so sudden that nausea rose up my throat, burning and acidic. Zorro, I thought, naming him. I wanted to laugh at the thought, but I didn’t have the breath.

“Roul, Roul, leader of the Lupus Clan,” he said. I heard him, even over my concussed ears. His voice was like ice cream, cool and rich, melting into a pool of hot caramel. I shivered at the tone, his words in an accent that would have been sexy had I not been bleeding, in pain, and thinking I might die shortly.

“This is not the way—to kill the messenger.” He made a little tsk-tsk sound. “You knew that Leo would not permit your wolves in his city without a fight. Do you desire to waste all your energies on this, the first round of the game? No, no, no. Think. You have made your point and bloodied your opponent.”

And that opponent would be me. I took the opportunity to stand, feeling pain in one knee and ankle. I had landed wrong when they pushed me down. I swallowed and the fang abrasion in my neck and throat pulled and stung. That was gonna hurt until I could change. Bad.

I adjusted my grip on the weapons, and pain zinged up my arm. My fingers were ripped; one, maybe more, wasn’t working at all. Someone turned on the lights in the pool area, the illumination like a camera flash, throwing the room into harsh relief.

I spotted the smallest wolf, the bitch, on the fringes of the fight, under the pool table she had been sitting on earlier. She was bleeding, weight on three legs. She was the one I’d ham-strung. I grinned at her, knowing my expression was vicious. I was hurt, but some of them were hurt a lot worse. Not that that would have kept me alive much longer. Sheer numbers would have won in the end.

“Withdraw for now,” sword-guy-Zorro said, “and wait. Leo must come to you eventually, one-on-one. That is a battle you may yet win.”

Roul threw back his head and howled, throat exposed, the sound not mournful at all, but filled with fury, like nothing nature had ever planned or created. Magic sizzled and hissed through the room. And they attacked.

Zorro stepped in front of me, blades flashing. I turned my back to his. Tried to place my feet for better balance, but the knee was weak. I dropped to my good knee, injured one up, foot on the floor. I cut upward. At the underbelly of a wolf. A second wolf came from my left. Fast. Faster than I could move. Fire Truck. The massive wolf bit down on my elbow. Bones crunched. Mine, unfortunately.

Pain shocked through me, up my arm, down to my fingers, paralyzing. With one arm, I fought off another wolf, but Fire Truck sensed my weakness. His jaws relaxed, left my wounded arm for an instant. Snapped back in, mouth open. Latched on again, just below the injured joint. Growling, he shook me, slinging my entire body left and right, across the blood-slick floor. I gagged with the pain. Stabbed at him. Caught him on the side.

From above, I saw a flash of silver. Fire Truck yelped. Dropped me. Zorro stepped across my form, booted feet to either side. I curled around myself, shivering with shock and pain. Found the H&K under my side, jabbing. One handed, I changed magazines, clumsy and slow.

Around me, the silvered swords sang, the man moving with grace and speed that a dancer would envy. Fast as lightning and nearly as bright. He was faster than anything I had ever seen. Faster than a vamp. Two more wolves went down, blood pooling, looking black on the navy floor. There were more than twenty of them. Seven were dead or too wounded to crawl away.

Roul’s wolf leaped from a table and landed on my protector’s back. Claws scoured along his cheek, a right paw curved in and tore through his shirt, raking along his side. I couldn’t fire without risking hitting Zorro. With my injured hand, I stabbed up. Slicing along the wolf’s side, cutting deep. The wolf yelped and flinched. As if anticipating it, Zorro bent, took one step, and twisted; the motion threw Roul across the room. A long blade swung up and scored the wolf’s other side as he flew. Wolf blood and the blood of the swordsman flung into the air. Roul landed hard and slid, scattering tables and chairs.

I shot the wolf closest. A gray-black wolf with deep drown eyes. It skittered back, legs flailing, claws losing purchase on the blood-slick floor. I aimed at another.

The wolves drew back. Roul turned, tail down. He limped for the side door, the others racing with him, leaving behind their fallen. Seven lay unmoving. Five more crawled or limped for the exit. Five seemed mostly healthy and scattered, taking up the rear, growling at me and my savior. “My count was off,” I said. I caught the hint of movement to my side. An impact over my ear. And blackness closed in around me.