The All Encompassing: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 1) (2 page)

That’s Sorry’s kick. Apologizes to whoever’s about to die. Does it right before every kill. There’s no telling what a man will do in the glorious moments before a murder. The air changes. All the inhibitions that hold us back, keep us pent up and pinned down during our day-to-day—they just disappear. I’ve seen guys chew on their own arm when the murder-scent descended on a room. Seen others fall to their knees and cry before the first blood was spilled.

Needless to say, those bitches didn’t make it into the club.

Nash slams his hand into Greasebag’s chest, aiming to tear out his filthy black heart. I shriek and howl as a wave of icy black blood spills out of the Stricken, so cold it sizzles and smokes as it hits the table.
 

This Stricken is Pureblood Reaped.
 

A fucking goner.

Nash howls and barks like the blood-hungry hyena he is and I know we’ll have to ride out right fucking quick because some neighbor’s sure to call the tool and the last thing I need right now is another night in a cell.

Fact I think that might drive me nuts, and this right here is what I hate about the human in me — the inability to remain in the moment, to remain focused and true to what’s happening right now, because what’s happening right
now
is that Nash isn’t screaming in kill-lust and triumph as he feasts on the Stricken’s beating heart.

He’s shrieking in pain.

Takes me a moment to understand. Been a long while since I heard Nash shriek in pain. Like, a fucking millennia.
 

“Rip its fucking heart out!” I scream when I finally catch up to what’s happening.
 

Nash violently shakes his head from side to side. His eyes are slammed shut and his face is red with pain and I see my packmate’s skin ripple, the animal in him threatening to break loose and strangle him against the iron collar.
 

“He burns!” Nash manages. “His blood fucking burns!”

A unusual sensation tickles down my spine.

What is it? Takes me a bit to recognize.
 

Fear.

“What do you mean he—” Mia begins.

I’m still standing behind the Stricken so I can’t see exactly what’s going on, but from the smell singing my nose I got a pretty good idea: the Stricken's black blood is burning Nash.
 

Melting his skin off.
 

Not supposed to happen. Never.

Nash strains to pull his hand out of Greasebag’s chest. But it ain’t budging. There’s fear in Nash's eyes now, real honest-to-fucking-God fear, and his shoulders hunch over and thick tufts of hair matt up on his arms and face and his neck bulges so tight around his collar the iron disappears into his flesh. The animal’s working damn hard to free itself, and I know how that feels, how the fucking thing senses your cage has weakened and knows you need it free and leaps at the opportunity, because the fear and pain is pushing Nash right over the edge.

Which means I’m watching one of my oldest friends die.

Well. Gimme a big order of
fuck that
.
 

And make it quick.
 

Nash barks and chuffs and gives a strangled gasp as his eyes go straight yellow. He pulls and strains against the Stricken but he’s too weak, and the Stricken is actually sucking Nash closer, sucking my friend’s hand deeper into its chest, chortling through the gag, his fat rolls jiggling and quivering, the air filling with black smoke and the stench of burning hair and flesh and I know the Stricken wants to suck Nash right inside its chest, melting and burning him down a bit at a time until there’s nothing left.
 

I wrap one hand around the Stricken's chin, ignoring the burning pain I feel from the fucker’s ice cold skin and I notice the gag is suddenly gone, burned to ash in the Stricken's mouth and who the fuck is this guy, haven’t seen one like this since —

But I stop thinking. Finally.
 

Nash is sucked up into the Stricken nearly to his elbow and there’s a horrible black-red light pouring from the Stricken's chest, lighting up the room, and where the light hits the wall the paint blisters and smokes. The light catches Sorry in the face and he throws his arms up to shield himself and drops to the floor.
 

The greasebag Stricken speaks. Its voice is like locusts stripping a crop bare. “He shall be reborn, and thou shall…”

Stricken. With their fucking thou this and shall that.
 

Like it’s still the Fourteenth Century.

Time to update, motherfucker.
 

In one swift, practiced motion I slash my claws across the Stricken's windpipe while tugging back on its chin. Usually one swipe is enough to behead a bastard, but this fucker’s thick-necked and surprisingly strong, so I slash again, and again, black blood spraying up to burn into the ceiling and the Stricken's head tips back as I sever the tendons holding it up; the fucker’s staring straight at me, pure black eyes empty as all fuck, and he’s still mouthing off, giving me some half-assed prophecy shit I can’t hear through the roaring in my ears and finally his head snaps clean off his spine and the blinding burning light coming from his chest flickers and weakens.

Nash tugs his hand free of the Stricken's chest. Burned bad nearly to the elbow. Like down to white bone under melted tissue. Not much blood because the cold seared it out.
 

Nash collapses to his knees, quiet now, too in shock to scream, but the animal’s fleeing him which is a good thing because at least it means he won’t die of strangulation.
 

Might be a poison in the Stricken's blood that gets him, though, so we’ll have to see about that later.

I drop the Stricken's head on the floor.
 

Greasebag’s human face vanishes and there’s a bloated red-green toad’s head staring up at me, mottled and covered in weeping, pestilent sores and spouting a pair of sharp, curving ram’s horns. I know this Stricken’s proper name. Stricken like to call themselves Lords and Overlords and Princes and whatever the fuck. Makes ‘em feel all special. But I tell you what: Stricken come in two flavors. Ugly shitbags and even uglier harder to kill shitbags. This one’s higher up the rank than we’ve seen in a while, but he’s still an ugly shitbag.

I punch my claws through the Stricken’s back. Find its black heart. Tear it out and drop it on the table. It’s tough, giving up a feed when I’m so hungry. But it’s part of the job.
 

“Eat,” I say to Nash.

My friend looks at me, then his mangled arm, then the Stricken heart sitting in a pool of black blood on the table. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near that black blood, and I can’t say I blame him. His eyes are bulging out and ringed in dark circles and yeah, it’s safe to say he’s shaken up.
 

Which is why he needs this feed.
 

“That’s a fucking command,” I say.

Nash snatches the heart and digs in while Sorry rushes over, douses the Stricken's frog-head in lighter fluid and flicks a Zippo to flame.

Another suspicious fire in Chinatown tonight.

Fuck it. I’d watch the whole city burn and say pass the hotdogs.
 

If I had a choice.

I light a smoke and hand it to Nash as the toad-head begins burning.
 

Nash takes a long drag, then hits the blow, which is a good sign. The Stricken’s poison doesn’t seem too bad. Nash’ll live.
 

Mia also looks shaken up. Another first.
 

“I can’t…I’ve never…” she says, staring at the head burning blue-red with an unusual intensity. Flames are already licking their way up the wall.

“What did you think?” I snarl. “They’re all gunna lay down and die cuz you give ‘em a fucking rub?”

It’s an asshole thing to say at a time like this. Poor leadership.
 

Well, fuck that too.
 

I never asked to lead. Never wanted it, and still don’t. But I was born to it, like a fish to water.
 

Its what and who I am.

Something’s tugging at my throat. Tightening it. Been getting this feeling a lot recently. Like I can’t draw a full breath. Like something’s strangling me, slowly. It’s this fucking apartment. Must be. The walls pressing in. Breathing this Stricken’s foul scent. And this city, too. Full of pathetic, desperate Skins going about their greedy, earth-poisoning business and trying to accumulate as much useless shit as they can in their brief, senseless lives.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to no one in particular.

Mia gives me an odd look. Her nostrils flare.
 

She’s scenting. Sniffing out hesitation. Uncertainty. Weakness.
 

Our eyes meet, and for a moment it’s real close to becoming a stare down.
 

I snarl and stroll by close enough to brush my shoulder against hers. Mia lowers her head and shifts slightly to the side, giving me space, as she should. Do I trust my crew with my life? Hell yeah. But apex predator alpha’s never die of old age. They die violent. Like they live. And the cold truth is it’s usually one of their own that scents weakness and throws down a challenge. So be it. Dying at the hands of one of my crew would be a blessing. Only the strong should lead a pack. And at least Mia, Nash or Sorry would make it quick.
 

I’m through the door and out of the apartment in two long strides.
 

Down the steps even faster.
 

Night air hits my face and I draw a few long, almost gasping breaths.
 

Maybe more shaken up than I’d like.
 

I stomp my ride to life and settle into the leather seat as my crew joins me. Nash gives me a nod to let me know his arm’s not too hurt to ride. He’s healing, and thank fuck for that. At least the burning blood isn’t permanent.
 

I give the Harley a long, aggressive throttle to show her who’s boss. Bitch sucks in big gulps of air, swallows them down and spits them out. Greedy for more. I pull from the curb, leaving a long trail of melted rubber. The stars overhead are low and bright and I make damn sure to appreciate them even though they don’t give a fuck about me or my pack or this shithole city or anything else, because if the old stories are true soon the stars will be hidden behind endless cloud and the moon will rise red and Stricken will fall from the sky like fiery rain.

It’s all paranoid bullshit, of course. A myth born of fear.

But if any of it’s true?

That’s the end of us Purebloods.
 

“T
O
NEW
BEGINNINGS
,” Trish says, raising her champaign flute. “To Seattle’s future Chief of Police.”

I smile and tell her that’s a long way off. “And besides…I’m not sure I want anything but homicide.”

Trish waves her fingers in casual dismissal. “Wasn’t talking about you, sweet. I was talking about me.”

I lift my champaign flute to hers. Trish is nothing if not ambitious. I suppose she has to be: she was the first in her family to make it out of the low-rents and through high school, nevermind into law enforcement. Our crystal flutes tinkle together and shine in the candlelight as we congratulate one another for making it out of our beat-cop uniforms and into homicide. Almost.
 

“It’s been quite a haul, Lily. Hours damn near broke me.”
 

“Bullshit. You owned this year.”

Trish smiles in a way that says she knows I’m right but is pleased to accept the flattery, then says, “You’re no slouch yourself.”

I raise my glass again. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I’m so far behind I think I’m ahead.”

“I get that.”

“Yeah,” I say so softly I’m not even sure she can hear. “I know you do.”
 

Trish studies the white-tuxedo-wearing piano player for a minute, then says, “So. Who’s courting you?”

“Courting?”

“Yeah. County? State? Feds?”

The Feds. I’m sure they called Trish. FBI’s always fishing for talent. But they didn’t call me. There’s a reason for that I don’t want to let my mind wander into, so I sigh and set my champaign flute down, trying to think of a way to direct the conversation away from work.
 

Only…instead of settling like it should the glass hovers an inch above the table after my hand lets go, then slowly descends. A chill races down my neck.

“Something the matter?” Trish asks.
 

So she didn’t see it. Does that mean it didn’t happen, or she missed it? I hear the concern in my friend’s voice but don’t look up. I don’t want her to see the fear in my eyes.
 

It was the booze I drank tonight. The stress of seventy-two hour shifts fueled by Adderol and Vitamin Water.
 

What else could it be?
 

Champaign flutes don’t fucking
hover
.

I close my eyes, trying to find a center by focusing on my surroundings: the leather seat under me, the smell of sautéed meats and rich sauces wafting from the restaurant kitchen. But it doesn’t help. My hands begin trembling, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Trish’s eyebrow flicker.
 

Damn her. Girl notices everything.
 

Recently I’ve been seeing…strange things. Like my champaign glass hovering in midair just then. And worse.
 

Sometimes it happens while riding the bus. Staring out the window through rain-patterned glass. I’ll see a homeless guy hunched against a building, cradling a curving talon instead of a hand. Or a woman walking into a rain puddle, and instead of sinking she just…floats across the water. A black-feathered carrion bird, like a vulture but larger, swooping low overhead when I’m out jogging, and when I look up I swear I see ram’s horns sprouting from the bird’s head. And last week I saw this…
creature
standing outside the gates to a mansion homicide was called at to investigate a murder.