Chapter 7 Cord
I’VE BEEN PACING my apartment since Asher left, trying to clear my head and get control of my damn senses.
Why did I let him do that? Why did I even let him in the apartment? I should have slammed the door in his face. I will next time…if there is a next time.
What am I thinking; of course there will be a next time. This is Asher, who doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit. Boundaries are just suggestions to him. He built an empire being ruthless. Hiding behind that guileless face. And people say I’m dangerous.
The sad part–the really fucking sickening truth to all this is–I enjoyed it. I let him do it because it felt good. It felt right. Like he was right where he was supposed to be.
Weak.
That’s all it is.
A weakness. An addiction.
And like any addiction, I can get over it.
I just need to stay away from him.
I need a distraction. To lose myself in some mindless violence.
And I know just the place.
I grab my keys and shrug into my jacket. There won’t be much activity at the club this time of day, but there’s always someone around with an itch to scratch, and right now I’m just the person to oblige them.
There are maybe a dozen cars in the parking lot when I pull up to the squat, nondescript building near the docks. Anyone not in the know would think it was a storage bunker since there are no windows and one entrance, but it hosts some of the bloodiest violence in the city on a regular basis.
And the only people allowed inside are vampires.
This is our haven. The place where we can go to let the beast come out and play.
Darnell is manning the door. Nasty piece of work. I’ve yet to meet him in the cage, but I’ve seen what he’s done to others. Maybe someday I’ll feel reckless enough to take him on, but it looks like today won’t be that day.
“Cord,” he greets, pen poised above his clipboard. “Fighting or spectating?”
I look around at the few suited businessmen occupying the seats outside the cage. How some people can get their fix just watching escapes me. “What do you think?”
He shrugs. “I have to ask.”
“Fighting.”
He enters my name on the list. “When’s the last time you fed?”
“Last night.” I know the rules. No one fights hungry, and the club provides donors for aftercare, though I know for a fact that half of them are junkies who are rounded up in the streets with the promise of a few bucks and a fix.
They don’t worry about them talking because they’re usually stoned out of their minds.
“You’re in luck. There’s an opening in the next round.”
So much the better. I nod to him and make my way to the corner where the lockers are located and claim an empty one, tossing my keys, wallet, jacket, and shirt inside.
“Cord. Ready to get your ass kicked?”
I turn and face a thick Asian man with a shock of spiked white hair and a face only a mother could love. I know him as an enforcer for one of the lesser bosses, Broward. Hits hard and has no pain threshold. This should be fun.
“Deetz. Feeling lucky today?”
“I am now.”
“Bring it on, asshole.”
The attendant announces us as the bell rings, indicating we should make our way into the cage.
We go to our respective corners to wait.
There’s no need for anyone to tell us the rules because there are none.
When you can’t actually die from your wounds there’s no need to worry about the outcome.
It’s no holds barred for five minutes per round.
And we get two of them. What could be better?
I can feel the bloodlust rolling off the men watching as they surge forward. Money changes hands as the bets are made before the cage door is shut.
The bell rings and the two of us converge in the middle of the ring. Deetz swings first, connecting with my jaw. I shake my head and grin at him before returning the favor. So much for the feeling out process.
The next five minutes is a flurry of punches, kicks, and bites.
Both of us have gone down at least once and bounced back up for more.
I can taste my own blood in the back of my throat and swallow it greedily.
My fists are bloodied and raw, and one eye is swollen nearly shut, but I’m in my element.
This is just what the doctor ordered. No thinking, no regrets. Just pure adrenalin and reaction.
Deetz unleashes a barrage of punches at my midsection and I roll with them before returning the favor. The businessmen watching get their money’s worth as they’re sprayed with our blood when we slam into the side of the cage.
All too quickly the bell rings, ending our first five minutes of chaos. We go to our corners again and the attendant hands me a towel and a bottle of water. I down half the bottle and squirt the rest in my face then wipe it clean with the towel.
Deetz packs a punch, but I like to think I’ve given as good as I’ve taken. His lip is busted open and I can tell by his breathing that I’ve cracked a couple of his ribs.
Not that I’m worried about injuries. The healing process will start as soon as we feed.
The bell rings for round two and we meet at the center again.
This round is more vicious than the first, with both of us landing blows that would kill a human.
I don’t necessarily care about winning, just not getting embarrassed.
But I can tell Deetz is determined not to lose, and in his carelessness, he opens himself up to defeat.
I let him move in on me again and deliver a series of blows to my face, making him think he’s close to victory before I deliver a solid push kick to his gut.
When he doubles over, I bring my knee up to catch his nose.
It explodes in a spray of blood that causes him to stagger back a step.
That’s when I move in and slam my interlocked fists behind his neck and elbow him in the side of the head. Classic takedown.
He crumbles to the floor with a groan as the bell rings, then glares up at me with murder in his eyes.
“What the fuck was that?”
“No rules, remember?”
“Next time,” he growls as I leave the cage.
“Looking forward to it.”
I make my way over to the lockers, where another attendant has two donors lined up for us. Part of me wants to refuse, but the rule is, if you fight, you feed. The last thing they want is someone taking all that rage and bloodlust out into the streets.
I accept the knife from the attendant and make a small cut on the donor’s neck. The blood is bitter with the chemical taste of drugs that momentarily dull the pain, but I drink my fill and push the donor away before grabbing my shit out of the locker and getting dressed.
Darnell gives me my cut of the winnings as I exit the club. I’m sore and bloodied, but I feel more in control than I did when I entered. The afternoon has clouded over and the skies open up as soon as I step outside.
Perfect.
I run to my car and my phone rings as I slide inside. I breathe a sigh of relief when I recognize Dante’s number.
“Yeah?”
“What’s the deal with that picture you sent?”
“Just wanted to know if they were someone who works for you.”
“Why?”
How can I explain this without implicating Luca? “I was talking to a guy over in Brooklyn earlier and he mentioned these guys were snatching people off the street.”
“Yeah, so? What the hell were you doing in Brooklyn?”
I shrug, though I know he can’t see it. “Just cruising around.”
“And you happen to talk to someone about this?”
“It came up.”
He’s silent for a couple of minutes. “I don’t recognize them, but then again, I don’t know everyone who works for me. As far as snatching people, you know I don’t do that.”
“I know, but guys go off the reservation.”
“How do you know they’re even Clan?”
“I don’t. They could just be your garden variety human traffickers. Just thought I’d check in to see if it’s anything I should be concerned about.”
“I got guys in Brooklyn who can handle it if it is. I’ll pass on your concerns. In the meantime, I have a job for you.”
The job is to take down some Wall Street scumball who’s attracted the attention of the NYPD.
Seems he has a nasty habit of leaving donors dead in hotel rooms. And the murder scenes are bloodbaths.
The first four he diced and sliced with a knife.
Ordinarily Dante would let the human authorities handle it, since there’s nothing that could blow back on us, but then the asshole got careless and used his teeth.
Two victims, their necks chewed up, extreme sanguination.
Kind of set off alarm bells and caused them to go back and reexamine the first four murders.
Now the cops think they have a serial killer on their hands. They’ve even appointed a task force. Dante was able to get his guys working in the coroner’s office to destroy the evidence on the last two victims, but that will only go so far. They can’t make those cops unsee what they’ve seen.
“Find this guy,” Dante orders. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Got any idea where I can start?”
He gives me a name and an address. “I’ve sent guys over there twice, but he’s never around. You’re resourceful. I figure you can sit on the place, grab him when he shows up. The worst part about this is it’s in my own fucking neighborhood.”
“What do you mean?”
“The asshole lives across the street from me.”
Across the street. As in the building across the street.
The building Asher lives in.
In a city of eight million people, I have to babysit one that lives in the same building as my former lover?
Why does the universe hate me so much?
Dante emails me a file with what little information he has on Eduard Smyth.
Has to be an alias. There’s a grainy picture and some background.
He transitioned less than twenty years ago on the west coast. Left there and moved to Chicago, where he was forced to relocate yet again due to “questionable circumstances.” Meaning he’s pulled this shit before at least once.
Maybe Dante should be going after his mentor.
He’s obviously neglected his educational duties.
What happened to the vaunted vetting process the Clan is so big on?
I park down the street and approach the building cautiously, senses alert, though for whom is a question I don’t want to answer.
Dante said to do whatever it takes to bring this guy down, including ending him, if it comes to that.
He doesn’t use me for that very often, but I have no problem getting my hands dirty.
Judging by the picture of Smyth, he doesn’t seem like someone who could overpower me, but you never know with people.
No, what concerns me more is being spotted in the building by Asher. To say he might get the wrong impression is an understatement.
He should be at his fancy office right now, however, and hopefully by the time he’s coming home I will have found this dickhead and dealt with him.
I can dream, can’t I?