Blood Rules (38 page)

Before Stamp's brain could find an explanation, he discovered that he was inside a circle of monsters, almost all of whom were in their half were-forms.

One of them was fully human, though—the old man from the Bloodlands—and he was watching as the other monsters went for Gabriel and the she-wolf, leaping forward to restrain the snarling pair before they really got into it.

“Back off!” the oldster was shouting at the pair. Then he looked down at Stamp, and there was no doubt he recognized him. Hated him.

Gabriel was fighting the other monsters, snapping at them, but their numbers were too great. The werewolf had already backed away, pointing to her leg, which hadn't healed all the way yet. It might take longer to mend up here in the thin air of GBVille. So might Stamp's hand.

The others gave her room to rest and mend while they turned their attention to the vampire.

But Mags—where was Mags?

The oldster continued chiding Gabriel and the half-wolf. “A patrol spotted you, and they put out an alarm. One of them changed to full form so, even from a distance, he could hear what Stamp here was saying about the government. Think, Gabriel—wouldn't questioning him produce some information we could use? If not,
then
we could kill his ass.” He talked to the other monsters. “Separate Gabriel and Mariah and take them somewhere to cool off.”

Mariah. That was the wolf's name.

And right now Stamp had a reprieve. A few more minutes of life. But when the monsters started interrogating him, what would he do then to survive?

In spite of his predicament, he didn't lose composure. He'd think of a way to escape. What mattered was that Mags had gotten to safety.

The old guy bent to wipe Stamp's wound with some disgusting medicine and wrap a cloth around his arm.

“Dumb shit,” he said, his voice trembling, no doubt because of the blood. The were-puma held out a zip bag and the old man disposed of the medicine cloth in it. “Were you
trying
to get killed?”

Stamp only grinned, and he could tell it unnerved the guy.

The ancient man still had a lot of pluck and strength to him, though, and he proved it when he tugged Stamp to his feet, then pushed him toward some stairs in the tower. The monsters trailed as Stamp dragged his bad leg behind him. He'd left his crutches behind, damn it.

“What's with your leg?” the old man asked.

“Nothing.” No one had checked him for weapons yet, but they were sure to get a surprise when they did. He even had devices on him that would go unnoticed in anywhere but a high-security facility.

The oldster pushed Stamp down the stairs, and he stumbled, but didn't fall.

They took him to a cell block, where crude steel acted as bars. It looked as if the monsters had shoved the rods into the concrete through brute strength, taking the place of whatever had been there before. To Stamp's keen interest, there were more than just vamps and were-creatures around, too. He'd never run into any of those in his experience.

He'd never even been in an asylum.

In the cages, humans clung to the bars, eyes wide, skin dirty. They watched Stamp pass.

The old guy shoved Stamp into a cage and, as monsters surrounded him on the outside, a humanlike monster patted Stamp down. He was wearing gloves, no doubt to avoid any silver, and he removed all the obvious blades and throwing stars. And just when Stamp thought of the weapons buried
inside
the suit, the old guy made Stamp strip.

Oh, well.

They tossed some gray clothing at him, and he put it on, already peering around his cell for items he could use as weapons. It was pretty sparse in here.

Stamp went to the back of the cell to sit, locking gazes with the old man, who remained outside gloating.

He found out why minutes later, when they dragged Mags to the cell opposite his.

Stamp rushed to the bars, bad leg and all.

As they patted her down, she didn't look at him, as if too mortified at being caught. And when they divested Mags of her clothing, that was when
he
looked away.

“Did you think she'd get very far?” the old guy asked. “You're just damned lucky Mariah didn't change all the way and stopped herself and Gabriel from getting your blood for the sake of the information you say you have.”

He'd uttered that last part with plenty of doubt. Stamp just let him wallow in it.

The old man looked the cell up and down. “Did you know that this is where they used to store monsters?”

Stamp had made an educated guess.

Then the old man delivered the zinger. “Maybe you did know, maybe you didn't. But I'll bet you had no idea that the government was using new models of your precious Shredders to keep the monsters inside.”

New Shredders. Stamp wanted to spit.

“That's right,” the old man continued, seemingly content at Stamp's silent reaction. “New
and
improved, just like mutants everywhere these days. It looks like your counterparts deposited some of their prey in asylums, where the new Shredders—they call them Witches—guarded them.”

There must've been another tell on Stamp's face or body, because the oldster's voice got soft.

“Well, I'll be—you're rather unhappy about this, ain't ya?”

After another thoughtful second, the old guy left, leaving other monsters to guard Stamp and Mags.

He could feel the weight of her gaze, but he wouldn't meet it. He was remembering how he'd shed his blood at the heat of the moment for her. He'd have to tell her it was because she'd been his last hope of gaining vengeance on Gabriel.

“They didn't kill me, John,” she said. “They could've, because they had you in custody, but they didn't.”

He glanced across the corridor to her. She was wearing that gray uniform now, and her face was bruised from the fight with the redhead. He'd expected to find her sporting a matching grimace, too, but instead, she just seemed sad. And grateful that she hadn't been killed. And . . .

There was a soft gleam in her eyes that told him that, in spite of whatever excuse he might put forward for cutting his skin, she was thinking it was because he'd sacrificed himself for the good of her, not any cause.

Stamp couldn't face that, so he went to the rear of his cell, his back to everything outside.

He made himself think about how much he'd wanted to kill the scrubs before, but it didn't remotely compare to how much he wanted their heads now.

And, suddenly, he felt better.

Much better.

G
abriel awakened from his day rest, bolting upright.

He saw red . . . just red—

Then the colors of reality descended on him, lifting the blackness of his sleep, and his gaze took in the sterile cell around him, the silver bars.

Had he been here since last night?

Last night . . .

And it all returned in a backward rush: his fellow monsters tossing him into this cage to “cool off.” Stamp, holding out his bloodied hand in invitation.

Blood.

Blood.

And...

No.

Next came a memory he tried to reject, but it forced itself into him, anyway.

Kicking at a werewolf while the smell of Stamp's blood tied him up inside and strangled his senses.

The werewolf . . . it'd been Mariah . . .

Remorse pried at Gabriel's chest, and he wasn't sure how. He wasn't supposed to feel, only need, and he'd needed blood to the point where he'd turned on her. He would've even fought her for Stamp's blood.

Gabriel held his palms to his temples, squeezing, as if he could rearrange all the pieces that had fallen into place with a little pressure. But it did no good. Mariah hadn't wanted Stamp's blood; she'd been trying to stop Gabriel from killing Stamp and throwing away the prospect of getting that government information the Shredder said he possessed.

Right? It all repeated in Gabriel's mind—the torturous image of him sending a brutal kick to Mariah in her half-wolf form, her falling to the ground, where she'd cried out, holding her leg. He heard her saying his name over and over again....

Shame. Gabriel was
sure
he could feel it in him. He'd lost every other connection to humanity but this, and he wondered when even the shame would leave.

But he had an idea now, after meeting older vampires and hearing what they had to say.
After we exchange, our brains don't adapt to vampirism as quickly as the rest of our bodies.... It's our psyches that cling to humanity—it's our memories, our conditioning—but that doesn't mean we're still human....

And he hadn't been able to tell Mariah any of that.

He crawled to the bars, avoiding the silver. He could smell were-creatures all around him in the other cells, could feel the heat from their skin and hear the escalating rhythms of their bodies.

The first night of the full moon—that was why the were-creatures were being held captive, too. Every monster affected by the lunar cycle was already in lockdown now, including 562.

And Mariah.

Gabriel's blood churned at the very thought of her, and his veins felt as if they were roaring with appetite. But that was also because, somewhere in the cell block, Stamp was around, though Gabriel couldn't smell the Shredder or the blood the monsters had probably cleaned off him. It was the mixture of need and proximity of an enemy that addled Gabriel most of all.

“Hey!” he called out to someone, anyone.

He caught the attention of a guard down the way, a large, long-limbed female whose naked body was covered with auburn hair. A Civil Sasquatch with arms that swung at her sides as she came over. Wicked knives were strapped to both her thighs.

Gabriel trembled from his hunger, a drunk without a drink or a junkie without a fix. All he wanted was blood from Stamp . . . and 562. But there was still a part of him—his mind? or something much deeper?—that needed to know how Mariah was doing under the threat of the full moon.

The guard peered at Gabriel with big dark eyes in a hairy face, her lips thick and pursed, as if judging him to be calmer than he actually was. She took out earplugs, showing that she'd been prepared for his swaying powers if he was still in an ill mood.

He'd fooled her, because he was already picturing teeth—bigger teeth than he possessed. More efficient killing teeth, like 562's, that would make it easier to dig into a body for blood . . .

Gabriel stayed still, hiding his growing bloodlust. His vision hadn't gone red . . . yet.

“What is it, Gabriel?” the guard asked in a surly, snuffling voice that sounded just a step above Chaplin's in articulation.

She knew Gabriel, but not vice versa. His reputation had preceded him.

“Night's falling.” He could barely get the words out. “The moon. Mariah . . .”

The guard's words sounded slurred, but Gabriel knew that was only how he was hearing things in this quiet fever.

“She visited you earlier, but you were out cold, like every other vampire is during the day.” Some of her words were high-pitched, then low, snorts and breaths.

But Gabriel's mind was on Mariah. She'd been here?

“Did her leg heal?”

“She's fine now, and she went into lockdown just before you woke up. She's in a secured room with 562.”

He almost yelled
“Why?”
but kept himself serene, even as he wondered if anyone realized Mariah should be in her own room.

Gabriel managed to sound reasonable. “When can I go to her?”

He wanted so badly to think that he was going to help Mariah in some way, but he kept seeing himself kicking her instead. Kept seeing the betrayed look in her glowing green eyes as his boot connected with her shoulder and she fell to the ground . . .

The guard snorfed out a response. “She asked to stay alone with 562 under the guard of a lot of vampires and Civils. After your Badlands were-friends hung around to see Stamp and his partner questioned by a vampire, they went under restraint, too.”

“And Stamp?”

The Sasquatch shook her head, her long facial hair flowing. “Neither of them gave up information about a government attack.” Grunt, snorf. “He's good at mental blocking, and I think he might've taught his friend Mags how to do it, too. We have to keep them around until we're sure we've gotten all we can from them.”

“I have to be with Mariah.” No matter what 562's blood had done to her.

The more Gabriel thought he could help her, the more he could forget about kicking Mariah, when he'd forfeited every last piece of good in him.

The guard weighed his comment while, down the corridor, the werewolves began to howl softly, the were-cats hiss, as the pull of the full moon summoned their true monsters.

A
s I sat in front of a near-comatose 562 in a white, padded room deep in the bowels of the asylum, I could feel the full moon expanding within me, pressing out to its rounded sphere like a ball blowing up with air and light.

It was coming.

I exhaled, and the chains and crosses that bound me to the wall rattled. Like the other were-creatures, I'd requested the restraints, but with me, the monsters had really done a good job of containing. Same with 562 because, during a full moon, no were-creature that I knew of could stop from changing once we started up. We couldn't even hold ourselves to a half-change . . . unless 562 had given me something via our blood that lifted me to a higher, more intelligent form that allowed me a control that I'd never heard of before in a moon-changing were.