Inked & Bloodbound (Dirty 6th Vampires #1)

Chapter 1 – Cassini

CASSINI

When you're caught between two worlds, there's no such thing as neutral territory. But on short notice, Randy's Bar is about as close to no man's land as I can get.

I choose the shittiest booth furthest from the door—the one with the shattered lamp that faces the bathroom—and make a beeline straight for it, slipping past the rowdy underage drinkers undetected.

I'm always grateful for human incompetence; ever since, this pitch-black corner has been the perfect place to discuss shady shit in hushed tones.

It's a terrible place to have a heightened sense of smell. Every time the bathroom door opens it makes my jaw clench in revulsion. That’s the problem when you swear an oath in blood. Choice becomes a luxury you seldom get to make, but I know it'll all be over soon.

It has to be.

I glance down to the black vein in my wrist, thankfully hidden by tattoos, spreading under my skin, and trace it with my thumb. It’s started. The rot has taken root. I’ll only get weaker from here.

This needs to end. All of it. No more dive bar dealings, no more playing politics, no more chasing shadows.

Once I've slid into the sticky booth, I bury myself in the shadows, searching the room for anyone who could be a threat.

The low hum of stoner rock thumps through the rickety speakers propped behind the bar.

Melvins, probably. It's not to my taste, but I know this music well because they play it all day back at the shop.

The dirty hum of guitars matches the frequency of a tattoo gun droning from dusk to dawn.

There's a hint of familiarity in the air, and I recognize it as the owner's diabetes-sweetened blood from across the bar—distinctive enough to stink of cotton candy and rotten molars.

He cracks a beer open with his brittle teeth and downs the whole thing in one.

He's seen me, but it's fine. Randy's used to guarding secrets; that's practically his whole business model.

In this town, a dive bar owner with loose lips is a dead one.

More importantly, there are none of my kind here, nor have they visited recently.

I’d catch their scent lingering if they had.

I expected as much coming this far uptown, but my shoulders still drop a few inches when I confirm it.

Good. I'm not in the mood for a pissing contest, and right now I'm not sure I'm strong enough to fight for the sake of fighting.

Restless energy courses through me, so I take out my sketchbook as a distraction.

It feels good to keep my hands busy instead of watching the clock.

As soon as this meeting is done, I’ll slink back to the tattoo shop before anyone suspects I'm gone.

The boss has eyes and ears everywhere, and lately I've been a walking red flag.

A shrill noise shreds through the steady hum of the bar, and it sets my fangs on edge.

It belongs to the blonde in the cut-off jean shorts perched on the pool table.

A tangle of frayed denim threads clings to her bruised legs as she gulps from a huge pitcher of beer.

She playfully swats a nearby meathead across the chest and laughs again, sending the sharp sound ricocheting off the walls and disturbing the relative peace.

The jock moves between her dappled thighs and pushes her knees apart so he's pressed up against her, and she responds by hooking him with her ankles and pulling him closer.

With a clumsy fist, he grabs the jug of cheap beer by the handle and chugs the remainder before leaning back and letting out a long, disgusting belch.

She kind of looks like someone. Someone I'm looking for. I wonder if Beau will see the resemblance too. She's about the right age, same build, similar features, but it's not her. The girl I'm looking for is dead, or as close to dead as it gets.

The entrance swings open, and everyone in the place pauses to size up the new arrival, but he doesn't flinch.

My guest, Beau Fontaine, is dressed like he's come straight from the golf course. He strides toward me and sucks all the oxygen out of the room—which is pretty impressive for a middle-aged man dressed in a fitted navy polo shirt and beige slacks.

Beau wears the easy confidence of the authority he used to wield.

I guess it’s true you can take the cop out of the force, but you can't force the cop out of the man.

He walks with his chin pitched up and his broad shoulders pulled back.

That granite jaw of his is permanently fixed in a scowl, and when he slides into the booth, beer in hand, he's characteristically on edge.

"When the hell did you get here?" he asks without meeting my eyes; instead, they dart around the room as he takes a swig of beer.

I don't know why he's so nervous. He's burned all his bridges, but cutting deals and exchanging information with an ex-cop-turned-vampire-hunter will only hurt my already shaky reputation in this town.

"Good to see you, too."

He grumbles. "So, you got anything for me?"

"You've got to stop making me do this shit, Beau," I say, shaking my head. "I'm still trying to get the 6th Clan to trust me, but they're paranoid as hell, and every time you drag me away, it gets riskier."

He glares at me. "Cassini, I don't need a whole fucking sob story. I just need results. What's the latest?"

I try to keep the irritation out of my voice.

"It's the same as it was last time, and the time before.

I still don't know exactly where they're keeping her. Or if they even still have her.” I pause and suck a sharp breath between my teeth, knowing he won’t want to hear the next part. “Or if she's even still alive."

He throws his head back and drains the remainder of his beer in one gulp, then makes a move to leave.

"That's it?" I ask. So typical of Beau to drag me down here on some power trip. "I'm restless too, but you've got to give me more time. It's not like I can poke around and start asking questions."

He hisses through clenched teeth, "You're restless? We don't have much more fucking time. She could die any day now, and if that happens, you know what happens to you. Remember your place, bloodsucker."

I get the urge to reach across the booth and tear his throat out. To sink my teeth into his veins and drain him dry, but I don't. Not just because he's wearing a thick silver chain around his neck. Not even because his blood alcohol level is always so high I'd be drunk within seconds.

No, it's because right now, I need him.

I run my hand over the rough stubble on my jawline and try a different tactic. "Did you clock that blonde at the table? She looks like a casual bleeder to me."

He nods, running his fingernails along the edge of his beer label. "Yeah, she's got to be the same age as Meg. One of the guys playing pool is wearing a St. Edward's shirt. I could ask if they know her, I guess. What makes you think she's a bleeder?"

I point discreetly. "All the marks on her legs. See the little ones on her inner thighs? Someone's been drinking from her femoral artery. You see them? They look like thumbprints."

He looks over at the blonde, then back at me with utter contempt. "Disgusting." He shakes his head. "She's so young. That's someone's daughter, for God's sake."

"She seems pretty willing to me. They usually are."

It's Beau's turn to look at me like he wants me dead, his jaw muscles twitching like he has insects jumping under his skin.

I shouldn't have said anything. I know better than that.

Not when his daughter is still missing. Probably drugged up and hooked up to an IV in a basement somewhere, checked out and brain-dead while creatures like me slowly suck the life out of her.

Megan is the only family he has left, and I know he’d do anything to find her, even if that means hauling me to this bar for tiny scraps of useless information. It doesn't matter to him. He wants to feel like he's keeping her alive.

"I'm sorry, Beau. I was out of line," I say, and I mean it. I may have an obligation to find his daughter, but that doesn't mean I'm not sympathetic to his cause.

He gives my apology a tiny nod of acknowledgment, and when I'm confident that he isn't about to leap across the table and drive a stake through my ribcage, I change the subject.

"I'll go back and try again. I'll find another way in. No matter what it takes. Trust me. We'll bring her home."

"All right." His voice is gruff but tinged with gratitude. "I got a little something for you too. An of out-of-towner was looking for you. Dressed fancy. Young. Not too much trouble. He went down easy."

I swallow. "This vampire...was he trustworthy? Why would he just offer this information to you?"

"I waterboarded him with holy water." He shrugs.

The mental image makes me cringe. "You’re a sick son of a bitch. How do you dream this stuff up?"

"I hate y'all more than anything in the world, and it keeps me creative," he says with a proud smile.

"And I thought we were supposed to be the evil ones."

For a moment the tension between us eases. We can pretend we're not sworn enemies. We let the silence fall between us, heavy but no longer barbed.

Eventually, Beau pushes his empty beer bottle across the table. The tiny pieces of the shredded label settle into the grooves of the wood like paper snow.

"We should leave separately," he announces, standing up from the bench. "Give it ten minutes, and then you can go."

I nod. "All right. Stay in touch. Send me a text if you need to. Not everything has to be an in-person meeting. Remember, if I get caught, you'll have to blackmail another vampire and start all over again."

He rolls his eyes as he turns his back, but I think he got the message.

Before he walks out the door, something stops him.

He turns and approaches the bleeder blonde, who's scrolling through her phone.

When the jock steps away to line up a shot, Beau moves in.

He pulls out his phone, shows her the screen—Megan's photo, no doubt—and murmurs in her ear.

The girl squints at it, swaying as she shakes her head no.

His shoulders slump as he presses a business card to her palm.

Poor bastard.

When the door swings shut behind him, sending a wave of fresh air into this fetid dive, I start counting.

Ten minutes stretches like an eternity, but I force myself to wait, finishing up my sketch of the girl at the window.

Her golden hair catching the light that trails outside.

When I finally step out of the darkness, I can't resist making a detour past the pool table.

The blonde is hanging off the jock's arm now, rolling Beau's card into the tip of a messy joint between her fingers. As I pass, I lean in just close enough to be heard.

"Watch out for those arteries in your legs," I murmur. "That's a very sensitive spot. You can bleed out if you're not careful."

She blinks up at me, pupils dilated with more than just alcohol. A slow smile spreads across her pretty, round face as she processes what I've said.

"You want a taste, handsome?" she whispers in a sickly southern drawl, tilting her head to expose the pale column of her throat. "I only charge two hundred for a feed, but shit, since you look like that, I might just let you suck it for free."

"I'm good, thanks," I reply, stepping back. She has no idea who she's playing with.

That's when her jock boyfriend notices me. He tosses his pool cue, closing the distance between us with the swagger of someone who's never faced a real threat.

"Hey, pretty boy," he snarls, puffing out his pigeon chest. "You talking to my girl? I'll kick your ass."

I turn to face him fully, and the air shifts between us. I let my mask slip just a fraction—not enough for him to understand what he's seeing, but enough for his lizard brain to recognize the predator standing in front of him. I let the monster I keep caged out for a moment.

The change is instantaneous. His eyes widen, pupils swelling with pure, primal fear. His body goes rigid, frozen like prey in the presence of a thing that could tear him apart.

Even in a weakened state, with my powers diminishing by the day, I can still pour myself into the cracks of his mind. I can reach into his head and bend him to my will.

I can make him feel whatever the hell I want.

Confident. Fearful. Playful. Powerful.

Even safe.

Safe enough to beg me to drain him.

His legs shake in place, feet planted to the floor with sweat beading at his hairline. His breath grows shallow. I hold him there for a moment, enjoying the power, then I release the grip I have over his emotions.

His fear dissipates, and he blinks slowly, shaking his head like he's trying to clear a fog. "S-sorry," he mumbles, stepping back. "I thought you were... Never mind."

I flash him a megawatt smile, exposing my glistening incisors, and force a southern twang. "Hey, no problem, buddy. Y'all have a good night now."

He clutches the waist of the blonde like he's about to fall, his bloodshot eyes searching for answers that will never come.