Death's Rival (7 page)

Frantic, I pulled a throwing knife. But he didn’t reappear to shoot me again. Long
moments later, I saw headlights start to move, bouncing off the red-rock walls as
two cars drove away. I dropped my head back. Pain flooded through me, a tsunami of
agony. I was tired. So tired. But I had to stay awake. Had to get out of here. I pushed
at the seat belt, trying to remember how they worked.

Something wet and warm pooled in my palm holding the hilt of the knife.
Blood
. I was bleeding out. I needed to shift. Fast. I struggled to get the mountain lion
tooth out of my pocket, but my fingers didn’t seem to work. I tried to drop into a
meditative trance, but the earth spun when I closed my eyes, a sickening lurch. My
gorge rose, tasting of blood, and I gagged. The night sky twirled and tightened down,
becoming a pinpoint of velvet black sprinkled with white light. I could hear my heartbeat.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, fastfastfast. Too fast. I tried again to find the calm in
the center of myself, but there was nothing there, no center, no peace. Just the sound
of my speeding heart and wet, raspy breath. I was worse off than I thought. Maybe
a lot worse.

I didn’t have the time to shift into my beast to save my life.
Beast?
I called in my mind. She didn’t answer. No snarky comment. No insult. Nothing.
Beast?

Feet padded in the dark, barely heard. Coming closer. I laughed, the sound little
more than a wet, raspy moan. I closed my eyes. Beast pressed her claws into my mind
again, the pain sharp and demanding. Forcing me down. I dropped. Deeper. Into the
darkness inside my own past, where ancient, tenuous memories swirled in a world of
shadow-gray and uncertainty. I heard a distant drum, smelled herbed wood smoke. The
night wind coming through the broken window chilled my skin, smelling foreign and
hot and dry. Beast forced me deeper, memories firmed, memories that, at all other
times, were forgotten, both mine and Beast’s.

In the memories, I saw a deer with fawn and knew I would not hunt her just now, but
only after the fawn was grown. I saw an old woman bending over a fire, her silver
hair in braids, her wrinkled face catching light and shadow like the cliffs and valleys
of a river gorge. Her eyes were yellow like mine. I saw a kit straying toward the
cliff edge and padded over, taking it in my mouth, his entire head in my killing teeth,
held gently. I tasted/smelled/felt the kit struggling, heard his mewling cries. Breathed
in his scent.
Mine.

My heart rate began to slow. To stutter. The blood pooling in my hand felt chilled.
I had held cold blood before. Had placed my hands in it, in the cavity of my father’s
chest. And then wiped my fingers across my face in a promise of vengeance. A vengeance
I had never taken. The old promise, never fulfilled, scourged me, hatred unfulfilled.
A wrong never avenged, never forgiven,
I thought. But the concepts of vengeance and forgiveness melted away.

As I had been taught so long ago, I took up the snake that rests in the depths of
all beasts. Beast. Beast’s snake, remembered, even without actually touching the fetish
tooth in my pocket. Beast’s snake was a part of me. I fell within. Like water trickling
down a cliff face. Like fog slowly obscuring the world. Grayness enveloped me, sparkling
and cold. The world fell away. I was in the gray place of the change.

My breathing stopped. My heart faltered. My bones . . . slid. Skin rippled. Fur, tawny
and gray, brown and tipped with black, sprouted. Pain, like a knife, slid between
muscle and bone.

* * *

She
fell away. My nostrils widened, drawing deep. The scent of blood. Jane’s and the
predator who had stalked her. Night came alive—wonderful, new scents, heavy on dry,
hot air, thick and dancing. Blood. Salt. Humans. Sweat. Strange car.
Blood
. Faint trace of vampire. I panted. Listened for sounds. In the floor of car, Bruiser’s
voice still called, full of fear. But there were no cars, no music, no voices talking
over one another. I pushed away the seat belt and pawed from the boots and clothes.
Gathered limbs beneath and pushed, balancing on plastic between seats and placing
front paws on door/window/opening. Ugly man-made light was far away. Nothing here
was thief-of-vision. The world was clear, sharp.
She
never saw like this. Scented like this. Attackers were gone. I yawned and stretched
front legs and chest, pulling against legs, spine, belly.

Gathered Jane’s clothes and dropped them over the car door onto the dirt. Boots. The
gun she had killed, emptying its noisy heart out. Dropped everything and turned back
for cell phone. Bruiser was shouting for Jane on cell. Sounded angry-afraid. I looked
at it on the floor. Sniffed at it, pulling in air over tongue and roof of mouth with
soft
scree
of sound. Cell phone carried Jane-scent, and Bruiser could track her with cell phone.
Could track Jane-scent on cell from far away. I did not understand how he did this,
but Bruiser was good tracker of Jane.

I thought.
Bruiser could find Beast!
I stared at cell. Did not know what to do. I looked inside, to Jane, asleep in corner
of mind-den. I swatted her, without claws. But she did not move. I looked back outside
mind-den, at cell. I bent into floor of car and picked up cell phone in killing teeth.
Foot slipped off plastic. Teeth bit down. Cell phone shattered into many parts, broken.
Bruiser’s voice went silent. I pawed cell and sniffed. Jane had told me about machines,
like guns and Bitsa and cars, that were alive but not alive and that did not bleed
blood. I did not understand stupid human things. Cell phone had no blood, yet it was
dead. I killed it, like foolish yearling puma with first litter, killing kit with
teeth.
Stupid Beast
. I batted bloodless cell parts into backseat. Did not know what to do. Did not know
if Bruiser could track Jane now, but did not think that Jane wanted Bruiser to find
Jane-clothes and Jane gone.

Looked out at night, sniffing strange new air. New scents made Bruiser-worry go away.
Cell was dead. I could not make it alive again. I chuffed. Growled. Scented. Listening
to world. I was safe here until Bruiser sent help. Then big-cat would be prey to white
man’s guns. Again. Bruiser did not know Beast. Would kill Beast. This hunt was not
a good hunt. Beast needed Jane, but Jane still slept. I thought,
Could hide Jane!

I took boots into killing teeth and leaped up, over, and down,
lithe
and
lissome
—her words for me. Liked those words. Landed on dirt. Hunger tore into belly. Shifting
used much food, gave much hunger. But there was no meat here without hunting, and
no hunting until Jane was safe

I carried Jane’s boots across the ditch and into the dark. Went back to car, to Jane’s
bag and top-half clothes. Went back again for her bottom-half clothes. Snuffled her
pants. They were full of Jane’s blood, and spattered with her attacker’s blood. Jane
had shot him. Jane is good hunter, even without claws and killing teeth. Found hunter’s
blood on ground and bent over it, opened mouth, pulled back lips, sucking in air over
tongue and scent sacks in roof of mouth. Tasting and smelling with
scree
of sound. Learning. Scent was human and vampire and something hard and metallic and
ugly. Did not know this smell.

I bumped Jane’s pants with nose. Smelled tooth of puma concolor in small trap called
pocket inside of pants. Smelled cross and smelled magics of amulet. Jane thought amulet
was important. It was safe in pocket-trap of Jane-clothes. Beast wore one suit of
skin and fur. Humans wore skin and clothes—many clothes instead of fur. Would have
been smarter to grow fur, but humans were never smart. Walking backward, dragged Jane’s
pants along Beast’s paw-print trail. Hid paw trail. Hid her clothes. Jane was safe
now from predator who might hunt her.

Hopped on top of boulder. Studied world. Smelled for mountain lions. Jane said mountain
lions had been seen here. Two males, smart males who hunted as a pair. But I smelled
no big-cat. Only goat smell. Not far away. Wanted to eat goat. Listened for Jane in
mind. Jane still slept. I chuffed and snarled, claiming goats. And padded into night.

* * *

I ate. Long canines tore into throat of goat. Large goat still kicked, still dying.
But I was hungry. I bit into meat. Drank down pumping blood. Ripped into goat and
filled stomach. Hot blood. Good hunt. Over fences. Scared away large dog, as big as
Beast. Took stringy old male, not baby goat, so that Jane would not be angry. Carried
old goat back over fence into night. Ate. Afterward, licked blood from whiskers and
face. Rolled over, belly to sky, paws in air. Happy.
Beast is good hunter.

Overhead, a loud bird flapped wings in night, shining lights onto earth. Not an owl.
Owls are good hunters. This bird was stupid hunter, noisy, frightening prey. But big.
Beast liked big. Bird ducked and rose and circled, its heart an engine like Jane’s
bike, Bitsa. Alive but not alive. I remembered helicopter Jane had ridden in. Did
not like helicopter, riding in belly of loud helobird. Liked Learjet, smelling of
leather and vampire.

Beast, sleepy and full of old goat, lay on back and watched helobird. Helobird was
like angel Hayyel, and not like. Hayyel was bright and fast and flew like helobird,
but without humans in his belly. Hayyel had offered Beast freedom. Had offered Beast
new life. Beast had refused. Did not want to leave Jane. Overhead, big helobird flew
away.

Drew in night air. Cool. Clean. Delicate nostril membranes fluttered. Many new smells,
some with value, some without. Unimportant: smell of flowers, spiky plants, hot earth,
small creatures cowering in rocks, small snakes and big snakes.
Rattlers
. Dangerous hunters, stupid hunters. Would strike even at Beast, who was too big for
them to eat.

Foul smells were distant: gasoline, rubber, hot road, oil on road. Men were not many
here. Ridge of land, not far away, looked out over empty-of-man world. On ridge, Beast
could see/smell/hear farfarfar. Beast would walk to ridge, take in new world. Maybe
look for brothers who hunt together. Beast needed new mate. Strong mate would be good.
Strong, smart mate would be better. Even better still, to have two of them.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Man Who Killed Me

I woke with my head on my boots, my body veiled by my hair. A spider perched only
inches away, a big black hairy thing thrown into monster-sized silhouette by a dark
gray dawn. It skittered way, shrinking to palm sized, as I pushed to my hands and
knees and then to my feet. I threw back my hair and studied the situation. The car
I’d been driving when forced off the road, then crashed, then been shot in, was canted
at an angle, the engine silent. I could smell the road nearby, an overlay of exhaust
placing it to my right.

Overhead, a hawk flew, black against the dark sky. It called, greeting the day with
a piercing cry. I was muzzy-headed. And shivering. And hungry. Confused. Yeah. Confused.
But I knew that it was too early for most species of hawk to hunt. Something had disturbed
it.

My clothes were in a pile at my feet, which was weird, because I’d been in the car,
and no way had I made it here before shifting into big-cat. I’d been too close to
death. Beast had forced a shift when I couldn’t, but I didn’t remember anything after
that, which wasn’t normal. Even in the worst of shifts, when I was on the brink of
death and only a shift into another form brought healing, I always, eventually, found
myself inside Beast’s body, along for the ride, just as Beast was along for the ride
when I was in human shape.

I always remembered at least something of my time in fur. I didn’t remember anything
this time. Yet I was alive. I bent and found my panties and bra and pulled them on,
making a face at the dried blood. I pulled on the ruined pants and stuck my fingers
through the hole in the shirt. Two fingers. One hole. Yeah. It had been a big-assed
gun. I found the new scar under my left arm and between my ribs, which corresponded
to the hole in the shirt, and tried to figure what had been hit to make me bleed out
so fast. And then I found the other scar on the right side, a little lower. The bullet
had blown straight through me at an angle, probably taking out a kidney, maybe the
bottom tip of my lung, and the top of my liver on the right. Bowel for sure. But kidney
and liver were the likely kill spots; both organs had juicy blood supplies. I had
an indentation on the right side big enough to put two knuckles in, so a big chunk
of tissue had been taken out. I’d have to shift several times to smooth that out,
and like the other, older kill shot on my upper chest, it might never go away completely.
The old scar seemed to be permanent, I figured, because I had only shifted the one
time, before I wandered out of the woods to be found by humans, and I had stayed in
human form for years. These days, I shift often enough that most of the lethal wounds
disappear. Most. Eventually. Even the scars on my neck from several near beheadings.
Vamp hunting is dangerous business. My stomach cramped with hunger. I needed to eat.
Soon.

Headlights lit up the road in the distance and I hurriedly finished dressing, shoving
the empty gun into my waistband, holstering the others, and pulling the boots on over
my bare feet. My socks were nowhere to be found. My black jacket hid some of the dried
blood, clothing damage, and weapons, but not enough to allow me to safely hitch a
ride once the sun was high. No one would stop for a bloody, armed, Amazon-sized woman
on the side of the road, so I had to get moving before the sun rose.

I checked the ground as I made my way back to the car. No boot prints led away. No
blood splatters marked the ground. No indication I had come this way. Just the rare
sliding mark.

I stopped and bent, studying the ground up close as the sun peeked over a butte. Red
light spread out over the earth, a rosy crystal clarity of illumination that revealed
a paw print to the side of the slide mark. I blinked. Beast had come this way, and
something had then covered her tracks. I looked back at the rock I had waked up near,
and back to the car. And down at my filthy pants, long streaks of dust marking them.
“Son of a gun,” I murmured. “Smart girl.” It almost seemed like she was getting smarter,
more intelligent, more able to cope with the human world, though she would have hated
that thought. Beast didn’t answer.

I moved on to the car and gathered up my weapons and gear, trying to see what had
happened. I’d wounded the man who killed me. His blood trail was easy to follow. I
bent and sniffed, smelling the vamp who had fed the blood-servant, and something metallic
underneath the vamp-scent. Odd. They had followed me, shot me, one had been shot,
and they left. The blood trail got heavier the closer to the road it got. I wondered
if the man had made it to a hospital or died on the way. It was getting time to ditch
the nine-mil. There were too many shootings tied to it, and if a surgeon or a coroner
found a silver bullet, one of the rare, expensive hand-loaded rounds made especially
for killing vamps, it would come back to haunt me. I opened the tote and pulled the
top off a blood collection tube. Scooped up some dirt and dried blood. Resealed the
tube. I didn’t know if anyone could test a dirt/blood mixture, but if they could,
it would be nice to know whatever the lab tests could tell me.

I slung the tote over my shoulder and trudged to the road, thinking about the phone
in the Lear. I really shoulda brought a second cell.

* * *

At the airport, I stepped off the running board of the big-wheeled truck and handed
the cell phone back to the old man who had given me a ride. I’d given him a fifty
and fed him breakfast, watching him laugh as I ate enough food to feed a platoon of
soldiers. Men seemed to like to watch me eat, which was weird, but if it kept them
happy and out of my business I was content. It took a lot of calories to shift, and
four fast-food paper bags and more than a dozen wrappers littered the floor of the
truck cab. He waved and gunned the cranky motor even before the door closed. He was
color-blind and hadn’t noticed the blood; I’d been lucky. Not so much with the pilot—the
pilot I was halfway convinced had told someone where I’d be today.

Dan—which I hadn’t remembered from his name tag—studied me as he walked over, not
missing the dirt, dried blood, or my general state of mess. “You’re late.”

I lifted a shoulder as if to say,
Sue me,
but I said nothing.

“This way,” he said. “Stay close so no one sees the blood.” Personable, talkative
fellow. He should be on radio. I buttoned my jacket and held the tote over my bloody
shirt. The flyboy avoided the metal detectors, leading me through the back of the
terminal where only VIPs and flight personnel go, to the Learjet. I stopped at the
base of the stairs as the pilot climbed up.

The blood had been washed off the pavement. There was no crime scene tape. No indication
that I had fought for my life and Tory had been injured. “Is Tory okay?” I asked.

“He’ll live.” Flyboy didn’t turn around.

“Chatty, aren’t you?”

He didn’t reply. “See you in Seattle, then,” I told him. I climbed the stairs, grabbed
my luggage, and went straight to the shower, where I took a long hot one before we
taxied out. And then I pulled on sweats, hid my bloody clothes, stuffed the vial of
dirt and blood and the blue-eyed blood-servant’s pocket watch into my duffel. I stuffed
the duffel under a bunk and studied the door. I wasn’t happy about sleeping in a small
confined space with a possible enemy only feet away, and I figured that if vamps slept
here by day, they would have a mechanism to lock the door. They did. I slammed home
two steel braces that were built into the door, arranged so they would lock into the
steel frame of the jamb. Nice. Secure, I strapped myself into a bed in the sleeping
cabin, fumbled for the Lear phone, and called Bruiser.

He answered with “Details.” He didn’t sound happy. I had called him on the old geezer’s
cell and reported that I was alive, but that the fancy cell Leo had provided was dead.
Bruiser had been gratifyingly relieved to hear my voice, and irritated when I wouldn’t
use up Geezer’s minutes on a full report. I had taken his time by sharing my concerns
about the pilot instead. Bruiser was a step ahead of me and had already launched a
full-scale, deep background investigation into Flyboy Dan, his finances, lifestyle,
and love life. Because he was a part-time contract guy, the original background search
hadn’t been as intense as the one for the regular pilot had been. Now his life was
getting the fine-tooth-comb deal.

Safe in the Lear, I gave the demanded detailed report, leaving out any mention of
Beast, of course, filling in the time between the crash and the call on Geezer’s phone
with being knocked unconscious. Though I’m sure they had their suspicions, Leo and
his people didn’t really know what I was. Bruiser had tried to find me, but the GPS
on the phone and the GPS on the car both went out with the accident. Though there
had been flyovers by helicopters in the general vicinity, which was news to me; no
one had spotted the wreck. Bruiser had called every hospital and law enforcement agency
in a hundred miles of Sedona and discovered that one man had come in with “self-inflicted,
accidental” GSW—gunshot wound.
Yeah. Right.
The man had gone into surgery and then disappeared from the recovery room. Like,
literally disappeared. He didn’t even show up on security cameras. He just vanished.
Poof. But at least there wouldn’t be any pesky cop questions.

“Get some sleep,” Bruiser said when I was done. He clicked off. If I had been hoping
for some sweet chat or pillow talk, I was disappointed. I rolled over, tucked the
phone in its little nook, and closed my eyes. I was aware when we landed, the rising
roar of the engines and the bump of touchdown, but I didn’t wake. I slept until just
before four p.m.

And woke to the smell/sizzle of steak wafting under the door. I got up, dressed in
clean clothes, black jeans this time with a black velvet jacket, black silk shirt,
braided hair, and holstered guns. I’m not girlie, so dressing didn’t take long. The
weapons, however, did.

I wasn’t satisfied with the weapons I’d carried last night. I wanted more than just
a nine-millimeter loaded with silver shot. I hadn’t had enough firepower to stop the
bad guys at the crash site—who had been human, not vamp. I wanted everything I had
and I wanted every possible bad guy to know I carried it. Walk softly and carry a
big stick. Or stomp loudly and carry enough firepower to start a small war. Whatever
worked.

The weapons harnesses were problematic, having to be strapped on separately, yet align
themselves to give me freedom of movement. I wore two matching, scarlet-gripped Walther
PK380s; the one under my arm was loaded with nonstandard, hollow-point ammo; the one
at the small of my back was the Walther’s twin, loaded with silver for vamp and were-animal—just
in case. The semiautomatic handguns were lightweight, ambidextrous, with bloodred
polymer grips, and reengineered so the safety block wouldn’t break off. I had practiced
with them enough that I knew how they fired, how likely they were to jam in rapid-fire
situations, and how they reacted to various kinds of ammo. I’m not a shooter, not
a sniper, not into techno-porn. But I liked guns, and if I’d had all mine on me last
night, I’d have finished the goon without effort. Or at least without dying. Into
my boot holster went a six-round Kahr P380, a small semiautomatic with a matte black
finish. It was loaded with standard ammo. Under my right arm, low on my chest, I wore
my H&K nine-millimeter, loaded with nonsilver hollow-point rounds that would explode
on impact. If I missed a center-mass kill shot, I’d maim an attacker, even a vamp.
I inspected the weapon. I hadn’t cleaned it, which was stupid, but I’d only emptied
one clip, so the guilt wasn’t particularly intense. Extra clips went onto my belt,
under the velvet jacket.

My shotgun, a Benelli M4 Super 90, was slung over my back, belted on top of my jacket,
the grip within easy reach over my shoulder. It was loaded for vamp with hand-packed
silver-fléchette rounds that would work on human antagonists too. I carried one silver
cross in my belt, hidden under my jacket, and stakes, secured in loops at my jeans-clad
thighs. My braided hair was twisted around my head in a crown that would be hard to
grab. Hip-length hair was a handle in a fight, and I had been advised to cut it long
ago. It was the only suggestion by all of my senseis that I had ever ignored. I shoved
silver stakes into the crown and stepped from the sleeping quarters just as a stranger
placed a two-pound steak on the small table.

He froze when he saw me. He was wearing the white shirt and black pants of the company
Leo used for his part-timers, the patches on his shirt naming him Chris, the new first
mate. Lovely. Now I had a flyboy pilot who might be an enemy and a first mate who
might be his partner. I didn’t think Leo was trying to kill me anymore, but one never
knew. He swallowed before he asked, “M-M-Miss Yellowrock?”

I slid in front of the steak and dropped the napkin across my lap, picked up the knife
and fork, and closed my eyes. The prayer lasted half a heartbeat. I wasn’t leaving
my eyes closed for any reason. I cut into the steak and chewed, and then broke my
own rule with a groan and a gourmand’s closed eyes. Holy crap, it was good. Three
bites later I looked up and remembered the first mate had spoken. Around a mouthful
of steak I said, “Hi, Chris. I’m Jane. Good steak. I may have to marry you.”

He swallowed and turned back to the kitchen, but I heard him murmur, “It’d be like
sleeping with a scorpion.” Which I thought was very funny, and almost told him so,
but he was bringing me tea, and the steak was so good that I wanted to be nice. I
ate the whole thing, plus the sautéed mushrooms and grilled zucchini he set on the
side. Delicious. Ten minutes after I finished the meal, I was on my way, without ever
seeing Flyboy Dan.

* * *

It was still an hour before sunset when I got to the clan home of the Master of the
City of Seattle. The house—okay, it was a mansion, but my standards had changed the
longer I worked in close proximity to vamps—now I called it a house and didn’t feel
like an impostor when the driver pulled up out front. The clan home was a hundred
years old, three stories, brick, stucco, and wood on an acre of land, lakefront. It
had heavily landscaped grounds and a circular drive off Lake Washington Boulevard,
and all the houses near it were mansions too. I had no idea about property values,
but I was guessing two mil easy. I gathered my things and stopped, dragging my eyes
back to the Seattle Clan Home. Something wasn’t— The lack jumped out at me. No security,
no armed blood-servants patrolling. Not even a gardener on the grounds. The place
looked deserted. My shoulders tightened as I got out, slung the blood-collecting bag
over one shoulder, and closed the door. “You’re waiting, right?” I said to the taxi
driver.