Marked Clan #2 - Red (3 page)

Hawaiian Shirt was brighter than the last one. He took his time, ambling us toward the bayou and into a bit of brush for cover. Foot traffic on the mostly-forgotten sidewalk was more or less nonexistent at this time of night. A few drunken bums might shuffle by, but they mind their own business out of survival instinct. Something about wolves tells the feebleminded to stay away. Fools rush out, in this case. And here I was letting him lead me into a trap.

“The moon is so pretty tonight,” I said. I stretched and brought my hands down to the neck of my dress. He pulled me in for a kiss and locked one of my arms with his. I slipped free gracefully, but stumbled on purpose to make him think I’d had a little too much to drink. He was in no hurry. He watched me right myself and strode up slowly, making the Panama Jack abortion he was wearing look almost suave. Oh, this one had turned or killed quite a few in his time. I started to get nervous.

He took a deep breath, and I saw his irises widen.
Fuck, he smells it on me. He knows I’m scared. He’s going to pounce soon.
I faked a fall and pulled my epi pen out of my dress. He didn’t see it. He took the opportunity to move in for the kill. His body pressed against mine and pinned me to the grass. I caught a flicker of moonlight in his eyes.
Yellow. He’s turning. Fuck, PJ, do it already!

I slammed the epi pen down on his back, but it only discharged halfway. He growled, and I saw his face begin to change. Teeth lowered toward my neck. I felt his breath on me, and this time it didn’t feel good. The smell of him was the smell of eminent death. He closed his jaws just enough for his expanding muzzle and fangs to touch me. Hot drool dripped onto my neck and I cringed. Suddenly, he rolled off me. “What the fuck?!” he half-growled. His voice was thick with the change. He clawed at his shirt and it ripped open. “What did you do to me, you crazy bitch?”

I scrambled clear of him, reached into my boot, and trained the pistol on his exposed chest. “I’m nobody’s bitch, puppy dog. I don’t intend to be. Not now, not ever.” I unloaded two shots into his head. My blood coursed through him slowly. It had taken longer with only half the dosage. The silver bullets helped the process along. He writhed in pain for a good couple minutes. I wasn’t sure it was enough to kill him.

“Who…are you?” he asked through gritted teeth. Even two in the brainpan had only slowed him down. Fuckers were tough, I’d give them that.

“The last surviving woman of the Mackenzie Clan. Tell that to the Devil when you see him,” I said. He held his head and seized, then went still. I kept the pistol trained on him and walked around to his left side. My epi pen was smashed under his torso. I carefully picked up every piece I could, stowed my gun, and looked around. So far the coast was clear. No love-struck lookie-loos to stumble over my murder scene.
Good.
Someone would have heard the shots though, so I needed to move.
I’d also need another epi pen before my next hunt. It was time to visit the witch doctor.

Chapter Four

The botanica where I got my pens wasn’t far from my apartment—just on the other side of the freeway. Unfortunately, the shop was busier than usual that week so I didn’t make it there until the following Friday.

It was a nondescript place, basically a converted house. Some of our best clients lived not far from it. The crime around that particular collection of old houses was very low compared to what surrounded them. My friend Manuel was the reason. He was trained as a paramedic, but that wasn’t what kept the bad people away from his neighborhood. His other title,
Santero
, did that.

I walked in the front door of his shop, through strings of long beads. The smell of incense slapped me in the face every time. Dozens of statues of the Virgin Mary and other saints I didn’t recognize lined the walls, which were covered with shelves of candles and bags of herbs in colorful paper pouches.

Manuel Fraga sat behind the counter on a stool, fanning himself with a newspaper. His jet-black hair was cinched back in a short ponytail. The white button-down Cuban shirt and matching slacks he wore made him gleam like an angel. To some of his clients, he was just that. He rose when I walked in and picked up a thick cigar that smoldered on the counter.

“
Buenos dias, Guerrera de Sangre,
” he said. His voice was low enough that it could have shaken the nails from the floor. He nodded back toward the newspaper. “Lots of death in the news,
chica
. I was afraid the
lobos
had finally done you in.”

He smiled and gave me a bear hug. He smelled like incense and tobacco. “
Hola
, Manuel. In the mood to bleed me today?”

We walked behind the counter to another beaded door and he held it open for me. The tiny closet where he practiced western medicine consisted entirely of a single chair with high arms, an ancient table with cabinets beneath, and a battered metal stool. He looked me up and down. “The real question is, are
you
?”

“I know it’s soon after the last session, but I lost a pen last night. I thought it would be good to stock up again.”

Manuel sighed and reached into a low cabinet. He pulled out his medical supplies and prepped my arm. “We can’t do this forever, you know. You’re spreading yourself thin with all this death.”

“I never thought I’d see a
santero
shy away from the sight of blood,” I said.

He didn’t respond. Instead he put on some gloves, cinched rubber surgical tubing around my arm, and poked in a vial. I didn’t watch it fill up. If I watched, I fainted. I had learned that the hard way. I woke up shaking, with a barely-detectable pulse, and a face that was much paler than usual. One of Manuel’s customers had crossed herself as I left, apparently sure I was an evil spirit.

“Maybe it’s just
machismo
,” he said. “But I hate to see a beautiful woman constantly put herself in danger. Do you honor your friend’s memory with this?”

“You and my uncle would get along,” I said. “He says I must have inherited Poppa’s madness. He’s threatened to set me up on a blind date.”

Manuel popped off the full vial and inserted another. “Would it hurt you to try and feel something other than anger? Your aura is muddy from all this death.”

I leaned back in the chair and looked at the ceiling, focusing on deep breaths. I always felt a little light-headed while giving blood. “Spare me the mysticism, Manuel. You know I don’t buy it.”

“You believe a man changes into a wolf because of a curse your ancestors put on him, but you don’t buy that you have an aura?
Madre de Dios
, you white people.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Manuel taped a square of gauze on my arm and threw away the tubing, then chucked his gloves as well. He placed the vials of my blood in what looked like an armored lunchbox, and then stowed the rest of his pack under the cabinet.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “You need a fuck,
chica.
Is that down-to-earth enough for you? I’d help you out with that, but I’m afraid you’d steal my soul.”

I punched him on the arm as we left the back room. Manuel was a handsome guy, if a little too religious for my taste. The fact that he slaughtered goats and chickens regularly didn’t help either. I know how hard it is to wash blood off your hands.

“How long before you can get me more pens?” I asked. He sat down behind the counter again and took a puff from his cigar. I don’t think he actually enjoyed smoking. It was just the smell. He’d said as much before—it reminded him of his father.

“Couple of days, like always. Usual arrangement applies. You need anything from the shop? I’ll give you a good price.”

I looked around and picked out a Virgin Mary candle for Connor. He didn’t make it to Mass as much as he wanted to, but when he did I’m sure he did enough praying for the both of us. Manuel carefully wrapped the candle in brown paper and handed it to me.

“On the house,” he said.

I shook my head and pulled out a five-dollar bill from my bag. “I know better than to owe a favor to a witch doctor.”

Manuel smiled and reached under the counter. He brought out a small cash box. “The candle is only a dollar. Let me get your change.”

“Keep it,” I said. “Call it a donation for a needy parishioner. Or a prayer to…what was it you said that one time? Babaloo?”

“Babalú-Ayé,” Manuel said. “He’s the spirit of healing. You’d do well to remember him.
Adios
, PJ.
Sobreviva.”

Stay alive.
Most of my friends tell me that.
There was a time when the worst thing I had to worry about was getting knocked up or mugged.
I thanked him and carried the brown package out to my car. The tiny red coupe had seen better days. I made the mistake of leading a wolf to it once, and he’d ripped off the side door before I could dose him. I had it reattached, but I never got the scratches repainted. Manuel knew a guy that would do it cheap, but I’d never taken him up on it. The scratches reminded me to be more careful. Toxic blood wouldn’t do me any good if a wolf snapped my neck.

Someone had stuck a flyer under my wipers. I yanked it out and started to crumple it up, but realized it was a note. The handwriting made my stomach knot up. I hadn’t seen that handwriting in five years, not since…

“Tomorrow night, old apartment. We need to talk. Dree.”

Chapter Five

Dreama was back. If she was here, that meant the one who made her was too. He was the leader of their pack. I immediately started thinking of ways to lure him out. Killing him wouldn’t help Dree—Poppa said once they change, they’re stuck like that, having to live as human or beast the rest of their unnaturally long lives. I sure would feel better knowing he was dead though.

The other wolves I hunted were turned by members of my family’s clan, but that one…it was personal. He hurt someone close to Poppa and paid the price. I’m more forgiving than my ancestors—I’m quite content to let the wolves die. I was so caught up in my own little world that when I got back to the shop, I barreled right past Connor. He put a hand on my shoulder and I rounded on him, fist up and ready. I saw his face and froze mid-swing.

“Damn it, Bon. What’s gotten into you? Did you even hear what I said?”

I took a deep breath and cleared my head. “No, sorry. What is it?”

“You have a date tonight. Real nice guy. You’ve been stressed to Hell lately, I thought some R&R would do you some good.”

I felt the veins in my forehead heating up. “So you set me up on a date without even asking if I had plans? Fuck you, Connor. I don’t need your charity dates. I thought this family was done meddling with each other when Mom died!”

Connor’s face went from hurt puppy to angry Scot in a blink. He grabbed my arm and didn’t let go, even as I tried to flinch away. “You take that back, Margaret Jane! That’s my sister you’re talking about. She never meant anything but the best for you.”

His hand dug into me harder. If he clinched any more, he’d leave a bruise. “Connor,” I said as calmly as I could, “you’re hurting me.”

My uncle looked down at his fist like it was some alien organism with a mind of its own. He let go, but the look in his eyes didn’t change. “It’s not my fault she was taken from us, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself. “The one thing Glenna and I always agreed on was we wanted you to be happy. This madness you took up after Poppa passed has brought you nothing but pain. So
excuse
me
for trying to throw a little levity into your life.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “It’s seven o’clock at Ambrosio’s. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I’ll say something came up at the shop.”

Connor turned and stalked off to his office, muttering to himself the whole way. I heard “Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye.” It was one of Poppa’s favorite sayings when he was frustrated with someone. It basically meant, “Whatever’s meant to happen will happen—it’s not my problem.”

I looked around at the shop. A lady sat by the front door with a magazine trying desperately to pretend she hadn’t seen anything, and our daytime artist was very focused on a sketch for a client. I went upstairs, closed the door and leaned against it. Maybe Connor was right. If this “nice guy” played his cards right, maybe we’d both get a little levity tonight.
Who am I kidding? My cycle’s over. He can play any card he likes. I’m desperate enough that I’ll probably still fuck him.

Later that night, I stepped out of the shower and dried off. I had about an hour to get presentable for this mystery guy, so I looked myself up and down. My hair was a lost cause. The humidity in Houston made it a frizzy mess most of the time. I could only tame it into something sensible with a gallon of conditioner and a prayer to Saint Paul of Mitchell. My skin was white enough to reflect light at passing aircraft, and only darkened a little bit on my shoulders and arms from tight clusters of freckles. I had my mother’s wide hips and small but respectable breasts. I kept my pubic mound trimmed but not shaven. I got a kick out of a guy’s reaction when he first realized the carpet matched the drapes. Girl’s got to have a little fun, right?

I padded to my bedroom and dug through the closet. I had to fumble on the top shelf for my “nice” pair of heels. I almost knocked myself out when a huge leather book fell off and slammed to the floor by my feet. I let out a tiny yelp, and looked around like I thought someone might have heard. The thick tome had a dark blue crest with a golden stag on the front. It was Poppa’s Genealogy and History of the Clan Mackenzie.

I picked it up and brushed the dust off of it, then set it reverently back on the top shelf. I knew all the stories in it by heart—Poppa read them to me as a girl every time I came over. It wasn’t until Dreama’s situation that I realized the fanciful tales he told me of betrayal, revenge, and creatures that haunted the moors were real. I’d found out too late to save her.

“Levity, PJ,” I drilled myself with Connor’s words, “For fuck’s sake, levity!”