The Lord of Near and Nigh: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 2) (23 page)

The two of them skulk away, leaving me alone with my brother. His wolf is fading. I hold him as he becomes the man I was raised with, then lift the heart to his mouth, and when he’s eaten his fill I finish the feed. It quells the hunger. But only for a moment, and as I look at my brother dying in my arms and the corpses scattered and mutilated around the room I suddenly understand this isn’t worth it.
 

None of this is worth it.

But it’s all we got.

I stand, cradling my dying baby bro in my arms, and say, “I want them dead. All of them. Every single Stricken. I demand their fucking extinction.”

***

We load Sorry into the back of the van. Nash hops in after him, and the dreadlocked black guy, the reptile one, makes to join him, but I put my hand on his chest and say, “Uh-uh. Thanks for the help back there and all, but it’s a little early in the courtship to start getting serious.”

Reptile guy’s yellow tongue flicks at me, but is face is calm and unreadable. Fuck sakes. Reptiles make even worse pack mates than felines.

Nash pokes his head out. “His name’s Tate. I vouch for him.”

“Good for you,” I snarl, feeling way off my game. Quick-tempered. No time for this shit. “Now if we’re done with the love-in, Sir Tate here can slither right the fuck off.”

Tate eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say a word. That’s encouraging. Last thing I need is another loudmouth on my crew.

“He snapped the other guy’s neck when we were in the woods, Prez. Told me about Soren. That’s how we made it inside so fast.”

“What about Sorry?” I ask Tate. “You know about my brother?”

“No,” Tate says. “I don’t think Soren did, either.”

There was a time when I’d tell a motherfucker to kneel and know I could trust him until he got stupid enough to challenge me for alpha. But loyalty doesn’t count for shit anymore, so I say, “Get in the fucking van. And I swear, you even breathe in a way that pisses me off I’ll strangle you with that nasty tongue.”

Nash hops in the driver’s seat. Mia slides in beside him. I sit in the back with Sorry and Tate.
 

“Where to, Prez?” Sorry asks.

“The safe house first. We gear up with the heavy calibres. Then I’m gunna scent me a certain Skin bitch.”

Mia hisses. Sorry moans in my arms. Nash throws it in reverse and tears out of the woods.
 

“You got a problem, slinky?” I say to Mia once Sorry settles.

“What do you want with her?”

So Mia’s still all knickered up over the Skin girl. Except she isn’t a Skin. That much I know. Sorry said she was a Risen. One of the five children of the Primal Pair. Sister to the Fallen. The All Encompassing.

Fuck that. I press my palm into my brother’s feverish brow. They had him all twisted up. Filled him with lies.

But still. Lily pulled us through that RV. I think she may even have brought me back after the spirit-eater tore me open. And if she can bring me back maybe she can do the same for Sorry.
 

“What do you think I want Lily for?” I say, lifting Sorry so Mia can see him bleed. “I want tang. That Annie bitch just didn’t do it for me. And neither do you.”

Mia’s eyes widen in shock, then narrow into angry slits. “You want her to—”

“Bring my brother back. Yeah.”

“You marked her, Aaron. That’s all,” Mia says. “It doesn’t mean anything unless…” Mia’s voice trails off. She’s starting to get it. And I know it’s eating her up inside.
 

I don’t tell her what Sorry said about the return of the First Fallen, or how he thinks the Stricken are our lost packmates and Lily’s the All Encompassing. It’s all bullshit anyway. Stories the Stricken tell themselves to make sense of what they do. Everyone’s a victim. The Stricken have made a story where we’re the bad guys. Fine. Fuck ‘em. I’ve seen what they do. Like the fat bitch and her snuff porn. Only a Stricken could get off on that shit.
 

I got no love for Skins, but I don’t dig pain just for pain’s sake.
 

Only Stricken do that.

I kill for one reason: to feed. It’s law.
 

But if the First Fallen and the All Encompassing is a fairytale for fuckos, why the hell are the Stricken growing so powerful?

The thought nags at me, makes me growl deep in my throat.
 

When I don’t answer her Mia turns to face the front. After a minute I ask her, “So you can do it now? Control your animal?”

Mia keeps facing forward, but she nods.
 

“How?”

Nash glances at Mia. He wants to know too.
 

“I don’t know,” Mia says. “The collars never took as well for us reptiles. So we’ve always lived closer to them. Am I right, Tate?”

“Can’t go all-in,” Tate says, hooking his thumb under his iron collar. “But I can get pretty damned close.”

“That’s real nice,” I say, and I mean it. Being able to uncage my wolf when I need him and not having to worry about him never letting me back would be…dreamy. I look at Sorry bleeding in my arms. His face is pale and thin, his eyes closed. I can barely scent him. He doesn’t have long.

“Someone freed my brother from the collar. He went full wolf. You think it was that fat chick?”

We drive in silence for a minute, then Tate says, “Nah. If it was her Soren and the rest would’ve been uncollared too.”
 

Tate lights a blunt and hands it to me. Fucking Rasta wannabe might be good for something.

I take a long hit on the blunt and try to relax into this new level of shit-storm we’ve blundered into. I wish I hadn’t asked about who freed Sorry. Because if it wasn’t Fat Gladys who uncollared him it means there’s someone else out there with a power I don’t like them having.
 

Maybe Sorry will own up. If he doesn’t die first.

“Fucking Stricken,” Nash mutters, and I can tell he’s thinking on the kill a few days ago, when that Stricken's black blood burned him, and how fast they heal now, and Lonny eating that fucking spawn’s heart and going full animal.
 

Time’s change. But usually not this fast.
 

That’s the difference between good times and bad: you recognize the bad times when you’re in them because they feel like shit and you hate every waking moment. But the good times? The just slide on by until one day you wake up and realize they’re gone and you never stopped long enough to appreciate them.

I never used to be such a pensive motherfucker. Death tends to do that, though. Makes us think on things. Makes us wonder what we’ve done with our lives. Where shit went wrong, and what we could have done different.

***

“Holy fucking Hell,” Nash mutters as we approach the safe house.
 

I don’t have to ask. I scented the fire miles ago.
 

“Keep on rolling,” I say. “Mia. You come back here and hold Sorry. I need to get my nose out the window.”

I hand Sorry over to Mia, then join Nash up front. Nash pops the glove, takes out a bottle of rye and hands it to me. I take a long pull. The bottle passes among the four of us, emptying quick. Everyone’s more shaken than we’d like to admit. You ever seen a deer turn around and eat a wolf? Neither have I, but that’s how I’m feeling right now. Like a fucking
meal
. And after living as an apex predator for centuries, yeah, it’s bound to feel a little fucked up.
 

“Where to now, Prez?” Nash asks, sounding like he hopes I have an answer.

Trouble is I don’t. Not really.
 

I stick my head out the window and breathe deep. She’s out there. Lily the Cop. AKA Sparkles. AKA who knows what. She’s out there, and she isn’t happy. Her scent comes to me full of fear and pain. It feels…weak. Like a heart’s last few beats. I lied when I told Mia I’m only tracking Lily so she can help Sorry. I need to see her. Need to hold her. I marked her, and being apart…no matter what she is…it feels wrong. I should’ve never dumped her in the fucking street. Way to go, Prez.
 

The mistakes keep piling up. And so do the regrets.
 

And if Sorry’s right, and Lily is…something
else
, then I got more than one reason to want her close. They’ll be hunting her. And if the Stricken want something, well, that alone is reason enough for me not to let them have it.

“Drive downtown,” I say, pulling my head back into the van. “And fucking step on it.”

I
STARTLE
AWAKE
on a park bench in downtown Seattle. It’s nearly early morning, judging by the dim light glowing in the east. I’m wearing new running shoes and blue jeans and a warm black leather coat I recognize from my stash of clothes at Connor’s house.

Connor. Connor and…someone else. A woman?
 

Something’s there. A memory. Blurred. Something important.

Is Connor with another woman?
 

Shitballs. My fucking head is pounding.
 

Did Connor dump me here?
 

Nah. That’s a douchebag move.
 

Connor’s no saint, but he isn’t a biker Prez asshole like my one nighter.
 

I feel something in my pocket, pull out a two bottles: Adderall and prescription painkillers. Yum. There’s also a bundle of bills. I glance around, making sure I’m not being watched, then count the cash. A thousand bucks in crisp fifties. I dig around my pocket again. Find a note that says,
Go to Trish’s house and stay there
.

Written in Connor’s impeccable handwriting.
 

The fucking
dick
.

Something must have happened.
 

Maybe I found him with another woman and lost it? Maybe he dumped me? No. You have to be
together
in order to get dumped. And the last thing I remember is Connor flashing a fancy ring and me telling him I’ve never loved him.

Which is maybe partly true.
 

I struggle to sit, clutching my ribs. They feel broken. Everything feels broken. My hand brushes across a lump under my jacket. I’m wearing a leather holster. There’s a handgun strapped to me, a Ruger from the feel of it. Compact. Made for conceal and carry.

Fucking hell.

I’m parched. Need something to wash the pills down. I give myself a sniff. At least I don’t stink. Guess my billionaire ex gave me a shower, a lethal weapon and a pocket full of prescription drugs before he booted me on the street.

On the street. It feels like coming home.
 

I’d like to sit a while. Rest. Try and remember. It’s like thinking through a bad hangover. Nothing sticks.
 

But some images are coming back…a fire. A man with mouth’s growing from his skin. Another man with the face of a dog. And a conversation between me and Connor and someone named Star. A conversation I’m not sure I want to remember, because it makes me shiver just thinking about it.

Nightmares. Must be.

I glance around the park.
 

I have a feeling like I’ve been here too long already.

The park is two blocks long. There are trees and benches but no bushes for muggers and perverts to hide out in. Half the benches are occupied with homeless sleeping rough. The streets are nearly deserted. I walk across the wet grass and hover at the edge of the road until a cab rolls by, then hail him, hop in and give him Trish’s address, feeling good about being on the move.

The cabbie ignores me while I cuss Connor out for not giving me a phone. I haven’t seen Trish since the shooting at the Wilds. I have no idea how she’s going to take this early morning wake-up call, and even less of an idea what I’m going to say to explain it.
 

I tell the cabbie to stop at the first gas station he sees, and when he does I hop out, go inside and buy some Vitamin Water, a large coffee and two semi-edible food-like things that might be muffins but taste like greasy styrofoam. Back in the cab I slam two Addie’s and a painkiller while the cabbie pretends not to watch me in the rear-view.

My headache’s going away. I’m not feeling half bad. Might even go into work today. Except I dodged the detectives out to ask me about the arsons yesterday, and the thought of seeing Detective Sandra ‘Dragonlady’ Bernard makes my stomach twist.

Maybe I’m not feeling so good after all.

That gets me thinking about those murdered girls. That’s what I’ll tell Trish: that I need to use her computer because, uh, my apartment and everything in it got burned to ashes.
 

Which is the truth.

They say the best lies are half-truths.
 

We pull up outside Trish’s. She’s renting a two-story townhouse in Ballard. There’s a light on downstairs, which is a good sign.

I pay the cab, hop up the steps and rap on the door. Trish opens without unlocking the security chain. Smart girl. When she sees me her eyes widen and she unlatches the door.
 

She’s still foggy-eyed and in PJ’s.

“Hell, girl,” she says, opening her arms, and as I step inside and close the door a rush of sadness hits and then my friend’s hugging me and I’m sobbing, trying and failing to keep it together. Trish holds me until I stop crying, then looks me straight in the eye.
 

“It’s good you came,” she says. “You’re in a world of shit.”

***

 
“Bernard went nuclear when you and Kusch vanished yesterday,” Trish says, handing me a mug of coffee. “Stormed straight to the Chief of Police’s office.”

“Heather Ware?” I ask, shocked.

 
“Yeah. Told her about the arsons and dead girls and the crazy Japanese chick they nabbed the other night who said there’s a ship called the Ark that’s the headquarters for some whacko cult that’s kidnapping young girls and selling them into the sex trade.”

“How do you know what Bernard told Ware?” I say, trying to hide how interested I am.