“This isn’t your territory,” Jamere reminded him as he darted in close underneath the demon’s quick knife thrust to bury his clawed hand in the body’s gut. “You don’t give the orders here.”
“The New Rebels pack is under my protection, which means you and I are overdue for a chat about borders.”
Jamere ripped out a coil of intestines, tossing the ropy organ away from him. The tactical vest the hunter wore had torn like so much wet paper in the face of the vampire’s strength. The body in his hands jerked, a few more loops of intestines falling out of the hole. Blood and the acidic smell of a punctured stomach gave the cold breeze a sour undertone.
The sound of thunder when no lightning had struck echoed loudly in Jono’s ears. Gray light haloed the hunter for a split second before fading. The sulfur scent diminished as the demon fled.
There went any hope of getting answers.
Wherever the demon had escaped to, it wasn’t to anyone around them. Vampires had no souls, and the black magic powering the werevirus made possession too difficult most of the time for demons to attempt it on a werecreature. Jono only hoped they hadn’t damned anyone in the neighborhood to demonic possession.
Jamere dropped the body and turned to look at Jono. “You must be fucking special to have the Krossed Knights coming after your ass. Maybe I should leave you to the fuckers next time or put you out of your misery myself.”
Jono froze at that bit of information. Hunters of all things that went bump in the night had grown out of the Crusades in the western hemisphere, their numbers fluctuating over the centuries. They’d had more influence in the times where magic wasn’t looked upon as something useful. The last couple of centuries hadn’t been kind to their numbers, and they, in turn, had never been kind to the people and monsters they hunted.
Different branches had broken off and drawn up their own laws over the centuries as they migrated across the world. The Krossed Knights were predominantly found in the United States, and a problem Jono had managed to steer clear of until now, it seemed.
“Lucien wouldn’t like that,” Jono said in a low voice, gambling on the thinnest of associations with one of the most notorious vampires in the world to keep him and everyone else alive tonight.
Jamere smiled nastily as he stalked forward. “Way I hear it, Lucien might consider it a favor.”
Jono pushed through the creeping sense of wrong in his body to keep his focus, digging in his heels when Leon would’ve pulled him backward and away from the threat. “You want to chance that? Then be my guest.”
“Between the two of you, I thought Patrick was the only one with a death wish. You need to stop trying to one-up each other,” Leon muttered.
Jono hadn’t realized he was leaning so much of his weight on Leon until he tried to straighten up. Pain lanced through his ribs, and more blood seeped out of the wound. It still hadn’t healed, and Jono was starting to feel like the time he’d had the flu when he was a kid.
Jamere came to a stop in front of Jono, neither of them giving ground. In the distance, Jono could hear sirens, the sound getting closer with every second that passed. But the bodies lying on the ground were technically in vampire territory, and the Krossed Knights were hunters no one would mourn over.
“Those weren’t the only hunters after your ass. You’re real popular these days,” Jamere said.
Jono idly wondered what the bounty on his head was, and if it was something he should immediately warn Patrick about. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“You’re difficult to reach with that mage around you all the time. Where is he?”
Jono thought about Patrick’s absence, about how half their pack was gone and he had hunters harassing their borders. “Tell Lucien I want a meeting.”
“Jono,” Leon said warningly.
Jamere’s fangs cut into his lips when he smirked, half his face in shadow. “I ain’t no messenger.”
Jono leaned in close, Leon’s hand keeping him steady. “I’m the alpha of the New York City god pack. I don’t care about bloody demon-possessed hunters. I care about my territory. Tell Lucien I want to talk borders.”
Leon’s fingers tightened hard enough to bruise, and Jono knew he’d carry those marks for hours after they left the playground.
Jamere didn’t move, didn’t breathe, the undead smell he carried reminding Jono of a grave. The sirens were getting louder, and none of them could afford to get caught by the police. Not tonight.
“Been years since your kind has wanted to talk.” Jamere blinked, face moving with an animation to it that came as an afterthought. “I think I prefer the fighting.”
Jamere blurred away, his vampires following him. Jono blinked, stumbling a little when Leon hauled him around, taking on more of his weight.
“We need to get out of here,” Leon said tightly. “You’re still bleeding.”
“Silver and aconite,” Jono muttered.
“Yeah, I fucking know. Victoria is working tonight. We can swing by Mount Sinai on the way home.”
“No hospitals. They have to report attacks like this.”
“You’re a stubborn asshole. Stop trying to be like Patrick.”
Austin darted forward and settled in on Jono’s left, helping him to stay upright. “Is it safe for you to leave with the police coming? You can stay at my place until they’re gone.”
Jono shook his head, letting them guide him toward the locked gate, which Leon easily kicked open. “Get your pack inside, Austin.”
He was worried about their ability to keep their privacy intact if they were seen with him. Jono’s eyes could never let him hide, and he’d spent years taking public hits for himself alone. Taking them for the packs under his protection was new, but that’s what he was supposed to do. He’d bear that cost, and gladly.
Somehow, Leon and Austin managed to haul him back to the Mustang before the police made it
