Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
I zetta limped across the downtown intersection, hiding her face from the well-dressed humans lining up outside restaurants and movie theaters. What the fae hadn’t broken, the fight with the gargoyles had. With her limbs bruised and her clothes in tatters, she was a pitiable sight. A few bystanders threw her scornful looks. More pretended she wasn’t there.
Rage and shame thrummed through her, but she thrust it down for later. The path from the forest had been brutal, and she’d had no blood to give her strength to heal. Pain stabbed with each step, a molten blade first in her leg, then her ribs, sometimes the small of her back. The fae had understood how to draw out the act of injury, and even a vampire had limits.
If Rafe hadn’t helped her, she’d still be in the fae’s dungeon. She owed him, and she’d return with reinforcements, whatever it cost her. But her first task was survival.
One stumbling lurch at a time, she turned from the bright, well-swept main street into a side alley and, from there, to a seedy part of town. This was a no-man’s-land between the human neighborhoods and the streets run by the supernatural set. Neither wanted the blame for this block, but both made use of its so-called services.
She paused, sluggish and shivering, as she leaned against the grime-streaked bricks of the closest building. The amber lights of the Beacon Pub puddled on the wet sidewalk, bringing to mind the many other spilled liquids associated with the dive. Like most of the businesses along Skinner Street, it was a front for something else—in this case, the business HQ of the local vampire nest. They’d pay well for what she’d learned in the forest. With an act of will, Izetta pushed herself away from the wall and down the street.
The Beacon’s narrow door had lost most of its paint. The remainder was mottled by Christmas lights strung around the entrance and front window. If the decorations were out of season, no one cared. It was as close to fancy signage as the dive was going to get.
Izetta pushed the door open and was met by a wall of rock music from decades past. The tables were full, with more customers leaning against the poster-covered wall, pints in hand. The fragrance of warm flesh and warmer blood was a caress and a gut-punch. Hunger unhinged her already wobbling knees. Her jaw throbbing with the need to bite, she elbowed her way directly to the bar and grabbed the only free stool.
Henry, the werebear owner, was pouring drinks. He took one look at Izetta and pulled a carton from the fridge beneath the counter. When he poured it into a glass, it looked like ruby cream, only a few bubbles glittering along the rim.
“Heat the second glass,” she said, her voice a dusty croak. “Give me the first one now.”
Henry didn’t argue, thrusting the drink at her before pouring another and putting it in the microwave. Izetta gulped the slimy liquid, not needing to pause for breath. The plasma-infused beverage clung to her tongue, cloyingly sweet, but she immediately felt warmer. It would tide her over until she could hunt .
“What happened to you?” Henry rumbled as he put the warmed second glass in front of her, his dark eyes searching her face. He was six and a half feet tall and built like a concrete block wrapped in plaid flannel and suspenders. The patrons knew better than to mock his fashion choices.
“Long story, and not a good one,” Izetta replied, resting her forearms on the sticky wood of the bar. Already, the pain was backing off, so the disgusting drink was doing its job. “I was out Dunbury way. Had to walk back.”
Henry grunted, leaning closer to hear her over the din. “Too hurt to fly?”
Izetta shrugged. Vampires didn’t fly so much as levitate short distances. She’d been able to get away from the hellhole in the woods, but then her abilities had stuttered like bad Wi-Fi—not that she’d admit that out loud.
She sipped the warmed liquid and made a face at the chemical aftertaste. She pushed the glass back toward Henry. “Put something in this.”
He splashed in vodka, a trace of amusement crinkling his eyes. The rest of his face was too buried in his reddish beard to reveal much expression. “Glad you made it home.”
“I’m not home yet. I stopped here to talk to Malatest. He’ll want to hear about what I found.”
Henry frowned. “He’s got the lieutenants with him tonight.”
“Lieutenants,” she huffed. They were mere boys, mean-spirited toddlers grasping at the scraps of power Malatest dangled before them. She could take any of the brats one-on-one, but as a gang they made her wary.
She held out her glass again. It took a lot to get a vampire drunk, and she needed something to ease the knot between her shoulders.
The werebear obeyed, being generous. “I wouldn’t talk to Malatest tonight if I were you. ”
“Because?” She swigged the drink, the alcohol fumes burning her nose.
He arched a brow. “Sadie has put him in an unforgiving mood, and you smell like wounded prey.”
“Running up his gold card?”
“He wouldn’t mind that nearly half as much. Let’s just say she prefers the dance clubs to this joint.”
That fit. Sadie and the Magician had been together on the surveillance video—which raised questions Izetta intended to answer before her second drink was done. “How did Malatest find out where she goes?”
Henry gave her a droll look. “He is an Undead crime boss. I suppose he knows a few tricks.”
“Including pumping you for gossip.”
Henry shrugged. “Drunks can’t keep a secret worth troll dung.”
Which is why Henry heard everything first. Acting as confessor and shrink was all part of a bartender’s role, and the werebear was excellent at his job.
“Let me guess,” she said. “The club crowd comes here to wind down after their fancy night out.”
He gave a rumbling laugh. “Slumming, you mean?”
Izetta opened her mouth to retort, but an inhuman shriek rent the air. Every head at the bar turned toward the back corner. Someone—some thing —had jumped onto a table. Chairs clattered to the wooden floor as customers scrambled away. The creature swung around, scanning the crowd. When the light hit its face, Izetta saw it—he—was a half-shifted wolf. The hairless snout didn’t quite contain all his fangs.
Izetta slid off her bar stool, flexing her claws. She still hurt all over, but she felt better on her feet. The air stank of fear and a subtler hint of anticipation.
“A-rooo,” the half-wolf yodeled from a throat neither beast nor man .
The crowd—mostly shifters themselves—snarled a response. One picked up a chair, ready to brawl.
Henry heaved an exasperated sigh and grabbed a wooden club from under the bar. It was an Irish shillelagh , thick enough to crush skulls. He set it on the counter with a thud. “In case anyone gets ideas.”
Izetta understood. Fights were bad for business and getting furry only made things harder if the law got involved. Monsters didn’t get a pass.
“Second one this week,” Henry muttered. “Half-in, half-out.”
“What’s that about?”
“The Magician’s been passing out party favors again.”
Quick as a snake, she caught Henry’s wrist. “Tell me.”
He flinched at what he saw in her eyes. He had to deal with the half-shifted wolf, but she was the threat just inches away. “Tell you what?”
“Do you know anything about the spell he uses?”
“Everyone thinks it’s magic. It’s not.” He stared at Izetta’s hand until she let him go.
“Then what is it?”
“Bacchante.” He rubbed his wrist. “I heard the name last night.”
“Bacchante?” she repeated. “Are you saying this is—what?”
“A party drug. And they bring the stuff here after their big night out. Bad news for me.”
Pins and needles ran down her arms as her mouth dropped open with incredulous shock. She fought a sudden urge to laugh. “A drug?”
She was parroting Henry like an imbecile, but she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “No. People like you and me, we don’t react to drugs. I can barely get drunk if I try.”
“This one works. Leaves a pile of bodies, too.”
Izetta swore again. It made sense. The Magician preyed on the young, the fast and fabulous who thought a crowded dance floor and high-priced bloodtinis made them somebody. The fae had been luring innocents forever. But she’d expected enchantment from a fae. Hypnotism. Glamour. The gorgeous and deadly. Not something so mundane.
By then, Henry had turned to the other bartender, who was built like a rugby player, but was still just a human. “Get as many customers as you can out of here.”
“What? Why?” the young man asked, eyes wide.
“Do the math,” Henry growled.
When one shifter lost control, others struggled. Add enough beer and good times, and inhibitions were already low.
Izetta flexed her shoulders, testing how well she’d healed. She winced, but Henry was a friend. She’d help if she could.
While the werebear locked up the till, she pulled herself to her full five foot four and strode into the crowd, her steps in time to the loud, thudding music. Bodies formed a wall close to the table-dancing shifter, but Izetta had sharp elbows. Soon, she’d forced her way to the front. There, she had a full view of the wolf.
He’d changed a little more, growing into his teeth but losing the ability to balance on two legs. Now he seemed confused as what to do with his forelegs and alternated between grabbing at bystanders and scrabbling to stay on the table.
“Chuck!” a round man cried at the creature. “Chuck, knock it off!”
The speaker looked more like a pug than a wolf, and Izetta couldn’t pinpoint his species. There were too many scents in the room.
“Chuck, get a grip! You’re gonna be sorry in the morning.”
But Chuck’s human brain had left the building. He howled as his palms elongated, sliding into a sickening, bone-crunching stretch that made Izetta swallow hard. Claws sprouted with a meaty squelch. Images flashed through Izetta’s mind—carnage, remorse, execution. Scenes like this never ended well for the wolf .
“Chuck!” called his friend.
The half-wolf wheeled on the man, who was standing far too close. One paw lashed out, claws spread for maximum damage. Pug-face ducked in time, but his pint of beer went flying in a spray of lager.
A drum solo thundered through the sound system.
“Woohoo!” someone yelled, tossing his own beer at the wolf. At the touch of the liquid, the creature snarled and spun.
“Stop it!” Izetta yelled, but the words were lost in the chaos.
The music shifted to a fast, heavy beat. Izetta sensed the pulses around her quicken to keep time. If potential violence had a scent, the air thickened with it.
“Whoa,” another laughed as more drinks sprayed in the air.
The half-wolf snarled, drawing yips and growls from the raucous crowd. A crow shifter cawed a laugh. Izetta tensed, second-guessing her chances in a fight with so many stupid drunks. She was still healing, and her reflexes weren’t sharp enough to take on a crowd.
And not this bunch. Eyes glinted yellow in the gloomy bar. Customers shed jackets and sweaters as their temperature spiked right before a shift. Izetta glanced around to see other patrons hurrying outside, the staff holding the door and all but pushing them through. At least some folks had sense.
“What’s the matter?” a female shouted at the creature on the table. “Can’t get your wolf all the way up?”
Izetta grabbed her and pushed her toward the door. The woman stumbled, her balance drowned in house red. Others hooted and laughed.
Henry shouldered his way to Izetta’s side, the shillelagh braced against one massive shoulder. Someone pelted beer nuts at the half-shifted wolf.
“Give the lad some space,” the werebear boomed.
A few shuffled resentfully away, but most weren’t listening.
The creature spun in place, gnashing fangs at the taunts and jeers. Even Izetta could feel the crackle of energy passing from shifter to shifter. One customer sprouted fur and dashed for the exit, pausing to lift a leg against the bar. Two others began tussling in the spilled beer. The yips turned into howls, winding up the crowd. One—out of beer now—went to throw his mug.
Henry grabbed his wrist. “Enough!”
The suicidal idiot took a swing at Henry. The blow connected with the werebear’s jaw, splitting skin. With a roar, Henry hurled his attacker into the crowd, landing on two werecats scrapping on the beer-soaked floor. The sharp scent of blood ignited the mob. More shifted, baring claws and fangs. A bundle of black feathers—the crow shifter—exploded from the crowd and flew toward the safety of the bar.
The half-were leaped from the table into the crowd, limbs spreading as he plunged into the fray. Shorter than most, Izetta lost sight of him in the crush of bodies. Blood of Ancients! That was like losing a knife in dark water—nothing was safe until the blade was found. She hopped onto the table for a better view, her injured ankle throbbing a sharp protest.
She didn’t see the half-wolf leap from behind, sweeping her from the table and into the milling throng. Izetta twisted mid-flight, taking the brunt of the landing on her hip instead of her face. The beast pounced, fangs snapping a millimeter from her nose. She slammed the heel of her hand into his throat, forcing him off her aching ribs. She scrambled away on hands and knees just in time for Henry to bring his club down on the creature’s shoulder. The beast scrambled away, one arm dangling, to cower against the wall.
“Anyone else?” Henry roared, raising his weapon.
Noise and motion stopped as if a switch was thrown. Actual damage had been done, and now Izetta sensed each participant sizing up the stakes. Only the music played on, the aggressive beat echoing in her throbbing head.
Then the pug-faced man stumbled toward his friend, a worried frown wrinkling his face. The beast was nosing his useless arm and licking it.
“Chuck, are you okay?” the man asked, reaching out.
Izetta’s breath caught. “No!”
The wounded wolf’s reaction was too quick even for a vampire’s eye. With one paw, Chuck slashed, the long claws scooping out his friend’s insides with a slurp of wet flesh. Izetta sprang to her feet, but the pug-faced man was already done screaming.
Before Chuck recovered his balance, she grabbed his snout and twisted hard. Vertebrae snapped. Once the light left his eyes, she let the werewolf’s body drop into the sticky puddle that had been his friend.
Someone killed the music, leaving a deafening quiet in its wake. Chuck didn’t shift back to human, remaining a grotesque mix of species. Another effect of bacchante? Izetta sucked in a breath, steadying herself against a wave of sudden grief.
A drug—a chemical formula—had triggered this carnage. With morbid dread, Izetta tried to picture it. Was it a powder? A pill? Did it have a taste? What would happen if became easy to get?
With a whine of old hinges, the door to the back office opened. Heads snapped to attention, as if the crowd had forgotten what lay beyond beer and blood. Izetta smoothed her torn jacket, wondering if she still smelled like prey.
Roman Malatest, leader of the local vampires, strolled into the room, a shark sizing up the chum.