Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) (26 page)

Chatter broke out, excitement about the sighting.

Carl leaned his forehead on his arm, his hand braced on the wall. He stared at the bricks.

Lit by the jaundiced security light, Dean’s cheeks had been sculpted out, his lips pale. Dark smudges crouched below his eyes.

He looked like a drawing Carl had seen once of a wendigo.

Someone jostled him, the line moving. He pushed away from the wall, stepping out of the crowd, letting people behind him spill into his empty space.

Dean hadn’t set foot outside until after dark.

Carl’s head twitched, unconscious little jerks.

A hand touched his back, someone slipping past to get to the line.

He took another step back, coming off the sidewalk completely. Staring straight ahead, his breaths drying his mouth.

The shadow that had crossed Dean’s eyes. The pallor of skin.

He’d just seen a vampire.

The pavement vibrated under his feet. A noise rattled him. It took a few seconds for it to connect. He dragged his head around. His mouth opened, throat dry.

The rumble echoed off cobblestones and brick. The line kept moving forward, mostly oblivious, people disappearing into the mouth of the door. A few fans craned their necks to catch a look at what was coming, jumping forward to keep their spots.

And there they came, five outlaws in leather and denim, straddling steel beasts, their gloved hands gripping throttles, their hair rippling like flags behind them.

Carl turned as they roared around the corner, the noise beating his ears.

They pulled up behind the bus. Kickstands came down, engines cut off. A tension stretched the air. Carl backed another step into the road, distantly seeing the front corner of a car slamming on its brakes just shy of his thigh. He touched the hood of that car, still watching the bikers, felt it slip from under his fingers, the driver going around him.

The bikers split up, three striding to either side of the bus. On the side Carl could see, two canvassed the windows, the edge of the roof, the dark space underneath. The one in front—the broad-shouldered blond Carl remembered from the bar—strode toward the door, looking neither right nor left. Chin high.

The venue’s back door swung open. A roadie stepped out, not realizing what he was walking into. When he saw the blond reaching for the door handle, he stiffened. “Hey, show’s inside.”

Carl wished it had been the bigger of the two who’d come out, the one built like an ape.

“Ticket booth’s around the corner,” the roadie said.

The blond looked the bus door up and down.

“Come on, guys,” the roadie said, striding toward the bus.

The blond jiggled the handle. Stepped back, craning his neck.

Carl caught movement at the end of the bus’s roof and darted his gaze over as boots landed. He’d missed how that one had gotten up there—climbed? Jumped? A red-headed kid—probably not even as old as him—with an unpleasant sneer clomped his way across the roof to one of the ventilation hatches.

“Hey!” the roadie called. “Come off there before I have to call the police.”

The blond’s arm came out from his side. Black-gloved fingers clamped around the roadie’s throat. The blond hadn’t even looked over to see what he was grabbing for.

The roadie clutched the biker’s hand, saying, “Hey,” his voice strained. Saying, “I’m not looking for trouble. You guys just—” The roadie’s eyes widened. He tore at the biker’s hand, his breath rasping as he tried to get air.

The redhead on the roof levered a hatch up, pushed it over. Dropped to his ass, his legs dangling through the hole.

The blond watched him slip through before turning to the roadie, walking him backward with long, sure strides until the roadie’s shoulders slammed into the wall, followed by his skull.

He stared at the roadie while the roadie’s mouth gaped like a fish’s.

“Oh my God,” whispered a girl beside Carl. Her elbow bumped him as she brought her fingers to her throat.

He swung his gaze back. Another biker dropped through the roof. The bus swayed on its tires as the men moved around inside.

The other three stood guard, arms crossed, watching the crowd, the street, the back door to the venue. They were all solid, one with a gut pushing at the tee shirt he wore under his Black Sun Riders jacket.

The line to get inside had stopped moving, people bunching up. The guy taking tickets had his hand up, holding back the crowd while he yelled to someone inside.

The blond watched the bus, ignoring the roadie at the end of his arm. The toes of the roadie’s sneakers scraped at the pavement.

The bus door squeaked open. Boots clunked down the steps. The two bikers emerged, the older one giving a curt nod before tossing something the blond’s way. The redhead was already heading for his bike.

The blond looked at what he had in his hand. Looked back up at the bus.

He let the roadie drop back to his feet, and the roadie clutched his own throat, gasping for air, staggering against the club’s wall.

The crowd bowed back as the blond strode to his bike. He shoved whatever he’d gotten from the bus into an inner pocket in his jacket.

He threw his leg over his bike.

The engines revved. Their riders walked them out of the mouth of the alley, pointing them toward the street, then they took off, the riders lifting their feet to the pegs, their bikes swerving through cars. They rounded a corner, hair flagging in the wind.

It seemed to take an eternity, but finally the sound of their engines died off.

The crowd breathed a sigh of relief.

Carl’s chest felt like a weight had sat down on it.

The chatter started around him. “Did you see? What the hell was that?”

Four guys spilled from the back of the club, bats and sticks in their hands.

Too late, motherfuckers.

One bee-lined to the roadie, taking him by the arm, looking into his eyes. The roadie rubbed his throat, his eyes wet, his face dark even under the security lights. He nodded at whatever the other guy asked.

Thirty minutes later, sirens finally came up Tchoupitoulas. The cops paced the bus, walked through it with the band’s manager. Talked to the roadie who’d been choked, some of the crowd. Carl faded back, not eager for questioning.

The bushy-haired musician came out. His manager caught him by the elbow, trying to pinwheel him back into the club, but the musician clearly didn’t want to go—didn’t even look at the manager or the club. He jerked his arm free, asking one of the cops questions, even as one of the other roadies dragged him back in.

Music vibrated the walls, spilling through the open doors. The support act had come on.

Two of the cop cars left, leaving one behind, its two officers standing by the back of the bus.

The guy at the door started letting people in again—tearing tickets quickly, moving the line along with his hand. His eyes darted toward the road, the sky, as if he was expecting a storm to be rolling in.

Carl crossed the street. He sat against the wall of a building, hugging his chest. Watching the scene. He should get out of there, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Where else did he have to go?

What do you think, Soph?

She’d have wanted him to stay and warn Dean. Maybe he already knew, just from the fact that there had been bikers here. But what if he didn’t?

So Carl waited, hugging himself. Hoping the bikers didn’t come back.

A
college jock
backpedaled into Dean, his focus on a set of bright green beads flying through the air—or the cleavage on the barely dressed young lady who’d tossed them off the balcony over the strip club. He grinned at his friends, who clapped him on the back.

“That’s a sign. Let’s go in,” one of them said.

“I’m outta cash.”

“Fuck—already?”

After getting off the bus, Dean had gone in one door of the venue and right out another, fans calling after him out front. He’d tossed a wave over his shoulder as he headed toward the Quarter.

The jock said, “I left some in the room so I wouldn’t spend it all.”

“Well go fucking get it!” one of his buddies said. “I’d say it’s worth spending. Look at her.”

“Don’t go in without me!” The jock still had the beads clutched in his fist. He tossed another look toward the balcony, and the girl up there gave him a wink.

Dean’s veins thrummed with the earlier feed—the night seemed to bring him back to light and jangle. He’d needed space after the bus. Needed to be out in the open, moving around, not cramped into another club, hemmed in by another four walls. And he’d needed to get away from the dread. Tendrils still slid through him, but the focus had been a lot stronger at the club. Around that guy.

He hadn’t left intending to go on another hunt, but as the jock pushed into the crowd, he gave him a twenty-foot lead before wending through the bodies, keeping his blond head in sight.

When the jock let himself into a hotel four blocks later, Dean dropped his cigarette and jogged to catch the door. He stayed far enough behind that he didn’t look like he was following, but he caught the elevator door before it closed.

“What floor?” The jock stumbled a little over his own foot, happy. He’d hung the beads around his neck. They flashed Christmas-bulb green in the overhead lights.

Dean gave the number that was already lit.

“That makes it easy then,” the jock said, grinning. “Having a good time?”

“Oh yeah.” Dean leaned against the elevator wall, smiling with his lips closed. The guy smelled like alcohol, fresh sweat, expensive cologne. The pulse at his neck throbbed like a hard-on.

When the door swept open, he let the jock go first, pushing off the wall to follow—hoping the guy wasn’t in the last room in the hall. That would get awkward.

Halfway down, the guy fumbled his key from his pocket. Dean gave him a nod, started to walk on past.

Stopped and backed up.

“You wouldn’t have a light, would you?”

The guy was busy unlocking his door.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He shouldered the door open, held it with his foot as he reached back into his pocket.

Dean strolled past him, pushing the door wider, walking right into the room like he wanted to have a look around.

“Here,” the guy said, his brow creasing. He came inside holding out the lighter, a yellow Bic, his other foot still trying to keep the door open, but he had to let it go before Dean would raise his hand for the lighter.

The door clicked shut. “Thanks.” He slipped it in his pocket.

“Uh—I, uh, don’t know what you’re— Uh.”

“
Shh
,” the biker said with Dean’s mouth, raising a finger to his lips. “They’ll hear you.”

“Uh…” The guy looked around. “Who?”

A bed in the next room over banged the wall.

“Them.” Dean crossed the space between them. The guy backed up, still confused.

He shoved the jock against the wall. Still he was confused, his brow drawn down, his mouth soft as he tried to work it out.

“Stay still,” Dean said.

“What?”

Dean whipped forward, his teeth going right into the jock’s throat. Hot blood spurted from that pulsing vein.

The guy punched him in the head, trying to pull away.

Dean tangled his foot behind the guy’s knee, and down they went with a thud. The jock yelled. Dean shoved his hand against the guy’s mouth, wide open, his finger catching a nostril.

The guy tried to bite, but Dean’s hand wasn’t positioned in a way he could catch it.

Dean cupped his hand over his mouth and pinched the guy’s nostrils shut.

He bucked. His sneakers banged the floor. He punched Dean in the head again, but there was no way his teeth were letting go, not with all that light and heat sluicing down his throat. He twisted the guy’s fingers back. Heard a crack. A yell as the guy worked his mouth free.

Dean dug his face in harder, sucking, swallowing.

He drained the jock until he was kicking weakly, then took a breath, and bit back into his throat to finish it off.

He left him with a twisted neck, glassy eyes staring toward the suitcases that had been spilled onto the floor, the cheap Bourbon Street liquor cups that dotted the nightstand.

He stopped long enough to splash his face. His shirt collar was wet, but the shirt was black: the blood wouldn’t matter, not at night, walking through the streets. Not in the few minutes it would take for him to get a clean one once he got to the venue.

Back in the elevator, Dean glanced at his watch.

Cutting it close.

Thieves had probably come off stage by now, and he still had a ways to walk.

Toward the dread, feeling it press against his chest with each step.

That fucking guy. He should have torn
his
throat out instead. On the one hand, the guy from the bus had saved his life—Dean had been ready to let the biker finish him until he’d heard that door unlatch. But had he only left Dean alive because he hadn’t known what he’d become?

Was that why the guy was back now?

The stakes didn’t worry him—the one the guy had tried to jam into the biker’s chest snapped like a toothpick. The stupid stakes didn’t worry him, but the press of dread on his shoulders did.

Like maybe the guy had some kind of power. Bad power.

Bad for Dean, because the kind of feeling he had in him, it couldn’t signal anything good.

As he neared the club, the feeling was like a half ton of concrete settling on his sternum. He took deep breaths, trying to ease it. Trying to breathe through it. And part of him was still jangles and light, his head all rushy-feeling.

Most of the crowd had gone in. He didn’t bother going around the corner, just swung through the front entrance like he belonged there. No one stopped him.

The place was packed—hot already with bodies.

Like he’d thought, Thieves were done. Their own gear was set up, ready to go. His guys were probably pacing in the back, cursing him for holding them up. He pushed along the outer perimeter, dodging people who only at the last minute realized who was walking by, turning big eyes and gaping mouths toward him.