Death's Rival

Warmth rose up my neck. I had, effectively, just gotten dressed in front of him. How stupid was that? “Your car is out front of the airport,” he said. “The driver will have a sign in the window that says ‘JY.’”

First a Learjet, now a chauffeur. This felt downright weird. My life was not . . . normal. Not anymore. “I’ll be back before dawn,” I said, and was surprised when my voice sounded professionally polite and not schoolgirl- silly.

I slung the tote with the blood-collection vials over a shoulder and passed Tory on the way out, looking down on his scalp and curly, deep-chestnut-colored hair. He was average height, but in the boots, I stood six-three, bringing my boobs about even with his face. Right. Smothering a sigh, I took in the small airport, or what I could make out from the top of the ramp. The sun had been setting when we took off from New Orleans, and it was only a bit later now than then, with the time changes.

I clattered down the steel steps and into the dusk. My boots made so much noise I missed the sound of cloth moving on cloth, but the scent caught me as I stepped onto the tarmac.

Blood-human-vampire, Beast thought. Guns. Upwind.

To my left.

I drew on Beast-speed and pulled the vamp-killer. Stepped right. Caught a glimpse of a shadow in my path. I smelled the gun oil and the fear-stink. I cut out right, hard. Impact jarred up my arm. A grunt. Reversed the knife and moved fastfastfast forward. Whirled. Into the light. Blinding my attackers. Two. Only two. Blood smell meant I’d hurt the one I’d cut at. On his blood I smelled vamp and something chemical. But there was no time to examine the scent. They came at me together. Moving faster than human. Nearly vamp fast. Crap.

I hit out, feinting, and leaped up, torquing my hips, rotating my body in midair, midkick, at the uninjured one. My heel flew around, speeding up on the pivot point. Time slowed into the consistency of cold maple syrup, each moment containing a snapshot clarity. The bright light and black shadows danced beside and below me. My target moved in the split second before the kick landed. My boot hit his shoulder. Crap. I’d been aiming at his chin.

I landed on my other foot, whirled, ducked, and struck out behind me with the knife. My blade hit metal, the sound the dull clang of a gun, followed by an “oof” of pain. Both attackers were injured now. This one cursed. I managed to drop the stupid blood-collection bag and pummeled the closest guy with a series of left-handed punches and right-handed cuts. Blocked his strikes. Hit him again, this time knocking the gun away. It spun in the air. Into the dark. I bounced back, fighting for balance on the three-inch heels. I came away with his blood on my fist. A shot exploded in front of my face, the muzzle flash blinding me. The ricochet echoed in the concussion.

I blinked hard, trying to restore vision. The first guy I had cut came at me out of the retinal glare. Blinking, I dodged, cut, bent, and whirled away, biding my time until my vision came back, moving fast to make a harder target of myself.

Heart thudding, I heard clattering. Tory. Joining the fight. Idiot man.

One man turned toward him. Pulled another gun. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but Tory kicked, straight from the hip, his entire body in the move. A practiced, fluid motion that bent his body into a tight V and then snapped it open. I wondered what he studied.

The gun went flying. A shot rang out behind me, sounding dull beneath the concussive damage to my ears. Somebody had an extra gun. It sucks when the bad guys start thinking like me. Tory kicked again, but I smelled his blood. He’d been hit. Enough. I pulled a throwing knife and let it fly, the motion all one thing���pull blade, elbow back, wrist back, shoulder back, set up, throw, wrist snap, release. It took the shooter midchest, just left of his sternum. A lucky hit, between two ribs. The knife hilt thudded into his chest. Blood fountained out.

I whirled to the other guy. He was aiming at Tory, his extra gun in both hands in a Chapman stance. I dove forward. Grabbed his head. Our bodies impacted. I rode him down. Slammed his head into the tarmac.

He went limp. I didn’t. Not even for a split second of victory. I’d been taught better. I banged his head again. Hard. And rolled, kipping to my feet. Tory was dropping back onto the metal steps, his movement so slow it looked arthritic. The fight was over. I remembered to take a breath. My heart thudded into my chest like a jackhammer. Time snapped back to normal speed. I huffed for breath as I checked the two bad guys. One no longer breathing, one down and out.

“How bad?” I asked Tory.

“I’m gonna need some stitches.” He leaned left, hit the railing with his shoulder, and slid down. His blood flowed out, venous, not the fierce, arterial pumping of the man I’d just killed. But still, not good. Not good at all.

CHAPTER TWO Oh, Goody. I Wasn’t Gonna Get Sucked to Death

The pilot stuck his head out of the door above me, back inside, and then raced down the stairs. “I’ve called airport security and 911. They’re sending an ambulance and the cops,” he said.

I said something that would have gotten my mouth washed out by the house mother at the Christian children’s home where I was raised. “Medical kit!” I demanded. But the pilot was ahead of me and knelt beside Tory, opening the small kit. With actions that were medic-fast, he ripped open boxes and plastic packages and applied a thick layer of gauze over Tory’s wound. Over that he folded a blanket from the jet. The entry wound was low in the upper left quadrant, above his waist, below his ribs. I tried to remember what organs were there and came up with upper colon and maybe spleen. The exit wound was directly behind it and way bigger. The pilot adjusted Tory’s limp body, stuffed another blanket over that one, and wrapped them in place with gauze and a sticky-wrap bandage. He leaned in, applying pressure, his knees on the tarmac. “Come on, boy. Don’t die on me,” he muttered. “Don’t die. Fight. You can fight this.”

I lifted Tory’s feet and propped them on the steel step, got more blankets from inside, all treatment for shock. I’d taken an emergency medicine course between life in the children’s home and life as an adult as the junior member of a security firm. I’d taken a lot of classes in a lot of things. Some of what I’d learned was even useful occasionally.

Needing to be doing something for the man who had thought I needed help, and knowing there was nothing I could do, I secured the unconscious attacker, hands and feet, with double zip strips, cleaned out his pockets, and made a fast reconnoiter of the area while I called Leo’s to report in. Bruiser answered. “We’ve landed. Two blood- slaves—” I stopped. Yeah. Multiple vamps had fed off them. Blood-slaves, not blood-servants. Expendable weapons. “—attacked me as I got off the plane. I took them down, but the first mate, Tory somebody”—I slid a hand over my face. I didn’t even know his last name—“jumped in to help. He’s injured. The pilot called 911.”

Bruiser swore. Vamps took care of their own, avoiding all human agencies when possible, but this time it was too late. “Dan’s a part-timer. Leo’s regular pilot is sick today,” Bruiser said. The phone fell silent as he thought, probably going over the vamp-political implications of Leo’s self-proclaimed and uninvited Enforcer killing someone in the city of another master. Unlike me, Bruiser had a political mind and an elegant surface in addition to his ruthless side, which was the reason he was Leo’s real Enforcer. That and the fact that he had the blood-bond with Leo that I had refused. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get someone there to handle things. You get to the Romanello Clan Home.”

Which was what I’d known he would say, but the words were still cold and heartless. Something twisted deep inside me. As if he knew what I was feeling, Bruiser added, “Or you can stay and spend the next two days answering the questions of local law enforcement.”

He was right. I knew it. Still . . . “Okay. But someone knew we were coming. That list is limited to the pilot and first mate, the pilot who called in sick, any of the vamps y’all told on your end, and Derek Lee and his guys on my end.” Derek’s old team all went by monikers based on vodka drinks: V. Martini, V. Lime Rickey, V. Chi-Chi, V. Hi-Fi, V. Sunrise, V. Angel Tit. Derek had been called V. Lee’s Surrender—a joke with historic connotations. I trusted