The All Encompassing: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 1) (24 page)

Sixteen men, shot and torn to pieces.
 

Nash looks up and meets my eyes. I hardly recognize him. He’s a hideous half-man half-beast with deep furrowed brows and a huge snapping jaw and coarse red-yellow hair sprouting from his arms and shoulders. He’s covered in blood but doesn’t appear to be injured.
 

The M2’s have stopped firing.
 

 
I collapse against the truck, the reek of coppery blood and acrid gunpowder burning my nose. There’s only four of my human MC still standing.

Then I see a convoy speeding at us from the behind the concrete warehouse. Latino gangsters lean out the windows, pointing machine guys toward me and Nash. It’s the Collazo Cartel, and I know around the other side of the warehouse there’s a bunch of black Lincoln Navigators full of some very dead gangbangers.
 

“Fuck,” I say to Nash, thinking about my bro Friday. If he’s dead it’s on me. “They ambushed us. In our own fucking yard. Double-crossing fucks.” I wonder how long the Ah Hong Syndicate and the Collazo Cartel have been aligned against my MC, biding their time for a strike. And I wonder if all it took was a couple of whacko fanatics busting my bar up to make these assholes think we’re off our game enough to step to us.
 

Trouble is…looks like they’re right.
 

Nash shoots me a questioning glance. The hyena in him has quieted. He leans against the truck, then bends at the waist and rests his hands on his knees, drawing deep, ragged breaths. “Time to go, Prez,” he says.
 

“Not running from a bunch of shitbag Skins,” I tell him.

“No? Take a look around. We got two dozen dead guys here. Cop choppers coming in hard. And you know what? Fuck ‘em. The backstabbing motherfucker’s aren’t worth it.”

I snarl and growl and stretch my shoulders back, craving more blood.

“We’ll follow you,” Nash says. Me and Lonny and Sorry. We’ll follow you into those bullets. Fuck knows we’ve done it before. But you gotta lead, Prez. And leading doesn’t always mean doing what you want or what’s right for you. It means doing what’s right for your
crew
. People over pride.”

Nash looks across the yard. The Cartel boys have spotted us. The guys in the front two cars are sighting down their machine guns. “Think about what’s right for Mia,” Nash continues. “And Blue pacing in that fucking cage.”
 

I don’t know what to do, and that’s the worst part. An alpha Prez
always
needs to know what to do. Even if he’s stone-cold wrong.
 

It’s being decisive, not being right, that commands respect.
 

My wolf is shrieking kill. Kill. Kill. He’s a single-minded motherfucker, that one. He can afford to be. Life in wild is different than in these stinking Skin cities. It’s simple. Pure. Kill or be killed.
 

But Nash is right. We might walk away from a firefight with forty cartel boys. We might not. But we’re sure as shit not gunna be in any shape to track Mia or spring Blue.
 

Fuck sakes.
 

“We get whole, and then we paint the ground with these lying cocksuckers,” I say.
 

But even as I hear the words I think damn, our list of enemies is growing longer by the minute. The Stricken. The whacko cultists. The Ah Hong Syndicate and now the fucking Collazo Cartel.
 

Gunna be a busy week.

I peek over the shot-up truck. Three low-ranking MC are crouched behind their bikes, waiting my word and looking scared as all hell. The human arm of the Pureblood Predators MC is dead. A criminal organization doesn’t survive losing ninety-percent of its men in a single gunfight.
 

The Pureblood among us will be rolling solo from now on, and that means every dickhead with a grudge or a point to prove will be gunning to take us out. My head on a platter. That’s the word that’ll hit the streets after this, if it hasn’t already, and suddenly I’m afraid for Blue, alone in the Tac Penitentiary.
 

I’m a chickenshit coward.
 

Sometimes fighting is the easy part. Sometimes not fighting is the true strength, the true courage…but I tell you what: it sure doesn’t feel as good. I clench my fists so hard my claws dig into my palms, drawing blood, then lift my head to the sky and do something I’ve never done: I give a long, piercing, mournful wail.
 

Sonny and Lonny will know what that wail means.

It means every Pureblood for himself.

It means run.
 

T
HE
GOLDEN
EAGLE
swoops high into swirling mist over Lake Washington, reverses course and dives toward the water so fast my eyes can barely follow. It looks like it’s going to plummet into the water, but at the last second it banks hard, reaches its talons down and plucks a glimmering silver-blue salmon from the water.
 

“Got one,” Connor says, clenching his fist. “Nice work, Star.”
 

The eagle banks hard and heads toward us, swoops low over the ground, drops the wriggling salmon in the middle of Connor’s lawn, circles around, spreads its wings wide and lands on the fish. Its sharp beak dives into the fish as it begins feeding.

“They’re not pack animals,” Connor says. “They don’t understand submission to an alpha or loyalty to a pack. The only reason Star tolerates me is because she’s learned that doing so is easier than being on her own.”
 

We’re standing below Connor’s house, near the lakeshore. He’s wearing grey wool slacks and a knee-length black overcoat that makes him look like a Nineteenth Century detective. His hair whips in the wind. It’s not raining, but the air carries a damp chill that pierces through my thin rain jacket.
 

The eagle tears into its prey, its talons holding the fish firm. I hear a soft tinkling as the silver bells secured on the bird’s legs jangle in time with its movement. It’s a magnificent animal, nearly four feet tall, and its talons are large enough to wrap around a human head.

“Where did you find her?”

Connor shrugs. “Brought her in from Kazakhstan. They’ve been used on the Eurasian steppe for centuries to hunt and chase wolves and foxes.”

“That’s incredible.”

Connor’s eyes are bright with enthusiasm. Its the look he gets when seized by a new passion; like the world is somehow new to him again. I wonder how long the falconry hobby will stick. Probably just long enough for the bird to become accustomed to its new handler.

We watch the bird feed, and when its finished Connor raises a gloved hand. Star’s head flips from side to side, as if she’s considering whether or not to tolerate this silly human. Then she leaps into the air and flies straight toward us.
 

I gotta say, it’s terrifying.
 

Her eyes are bright and sharp as she focuses on Connor I feel a rush of air against my face and hear her wings slice close beside me, then she’s perched on Connor’s arm, her sharp beak inches from his face.

Connor loops a small leather tether attached to her leg around his arm. “The jess,” he explains. “Made of kangaroo hide. Light and durable.”

The bird eyes Connor suspiciously. “You trust her?” I ask.

“Not trust. She’s a wild animal. She acts in her own best interest. Right now it’s in her interest
not
to pluck my eyes out.”

“Great,” I say, taking a step backward.

“You want to hold her?” Connor asks.
 

“I do not.”

Connor smiles. He has a gorgeous smile that sends a warm flush through me.
 

He unhooks the jess and lifts his arm, freeing the eagle. She launches into the air, her wings beating a quick whumping sound. We watch her circle into the morning sky for a moment, then Connor pulls off the falconer’s glove and hands it to me. “She’s heavy. Brace your left arm under your right when she lands.”

I’m about to protest, but instead I slip the glove on. Its made of thick, supple leather warmed by Connor’s hand. It’s too large and smell of fish. But I look into the sky, and see that magnificent animal flying overhead and suddenly I do want to know what it feels like to have her return to me. That odd, mutually-beneficial bond so often forged between humans and animals. I’ve never had a pet; never even
liked
pets. Too needy. Too much responsibility. But Star, swooping high overhead—she’s not needy. She’s wild and independent and beautiful, and then the bird is swooping toward me, glaring at me with those bright, piercing eyes.

“Steady now, Lil,” Connor whispers.

What am I doing? My hands are shaking. This is a terrible idea. I’m a city girl, for Christ’s sake. I waffle, make to tear the glove from my hand as the bird swoops in. She dips uncertainly, then lifts her talons at me. She’s going to tear me open.
 

Wolf raptor. I’m nothing but a soft bag of flesh to her.
 

I stumble backward, terrified, and at the last possible second I manage to lift my gloved arm. Star smacks into me, catches me off balance, her weight driving me down, and then we’re falling together, a sudden chaos of flapping wings and sharp talons and flailing limbs.
 

We hit the ground hard. Star’s wing feathers crash into my face, and for a moment she’s perched on top of me and I’m staring into her sharp, golden-green eyes and I swear she gives me a quick wink before hopping off and landing a few steps away. Star’s head bobs in what I can only imagine is irritation. Silly city girl, she’s thinking.
 

I push myself to me feet and try to dust myself off.
 

Shit. My ass is caked in wet mud.

Star screeches behind me, then lifts into the air.

Connor’s fist is pressed to his lips. He’s trying hard not to laugh.

“What the hell,” I say, more angry than I should be. “That thing could’ve killed me.”

“But she didn’t,” Connor says.

“What’s the matter with you?” I say, getting even more pissed by how blithe and dismissive he’s being. “This new hobby of yours is bullshit, Connor. It’s one thing to mess around with a guitar until you get bored, but this is a living creature. Taken from her home. Trained to do your bidding. Its not
right
.”

Star circles high overhead, a black speck against broiling dark clouds. It looks like the rain’s coming. Shocker.

Connor puts the falconry glove back on. “What’s going on, Lil?” he says quietly.

“What?”

“With you. What’s going on? And don’t give me that look like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You roll in here at four in the morning, sweater torn and all bruised up and not a word of explanation.”
 

Connor’s face darkens, and for a moment I see the man he is: alone and a little lost despite his wealth and privilege, just like the rest of us, and damn it if I don’t feel like a real bitch.
 

So his eagle knocked me on my ass. Big fucking deal.
 

You want to talk about being blithe and callous and uncaring? Try this: I know I’ll never give Connor what he needs, and yet here I am, making a booty call when it suits me.
 

“You have your own life,” Connor continues. “I get that. But what are we doing, Lil? What is this…
thing
we have? Damn. I don’t even know what to call us! Is it working for you? Cuz it sure as shit isn’t working for me.”

I don’t know what to say. If I had some balls I’d say its over, for good this time, that we can never see each other again. And I’d actually try and make an effort to follow through with it. But I’m a chickenshit, and so I just drag my toe through the muddy lawn and avoid meeting his eyes.

“I found blood on your jeans from last night,” Connor says.
 

I look up. “So? I’m a cop. Blood’s part of the job.”

Connor’s face softens. “Look, I’m just worried about you is all. Not only the blood. The pills and the lack of sleep…I mean…don’t you
trust
me is all? Don’t we even have that after…c’mon, Lil.”

“C’mon Lil
what
?” I say, feeling my cheeks flush in indignation that he mentioned the Adderol. “I don’t need you fretting over me. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.” I try and bite my tongue but the words are too fast, propelled by too much hurt, and so I say, “You want some advice, since you’re so good at dishing it out? Well here it is: how about Mr. Connor Lerrick climbs down off his fucking high horse to live among the little people for a while? Y’know…where not everyone’s fucking
perfect
. What do you know about taking care of yourself, anyway? Nothing. Nothing at all.” I gesture to the glass and concrete mansion behind us. “Born at third base and acting like you hit a triple. You have no idea what it’s like out there, in the real world, for people like me just trying to make a go of it. Just trying to
survive
.”

“No,” Connor whispers, kneading the falconry glove with his other hand and not meeting my eyes. “I guess I don’t. And I guess you’re going to make me feel shitty about something I can’t change, over and over, because it’s
you
who can’t handle being with me, Lily. Its
you
with the hang ups about whether you deserve this or not. About whether you deserve this life I’m offering you. Because I know you don’t believe you deserve happiness. You’re a cop now. I’m happy for you. But inside you’re still a street kid, pissed off at everything, feeding your hurt and anger, using it to keep the world out, afraid of being close to someone who actually cares about you. Afraid of opening up and being vulnerable.”

My chest tightens.