Arik
I left the lair without looking back. I told myself I didn’t need to, but both I and my animal knew I was lying. The tug to glance at the female, to grasp one final connection before I left was overwhelming. I refused to give in. I didn’t need anyone, especially not a woman. That was a weakness I’d given up centuries ago.
Mind barred shut against the seductive pull, I exited the lair into the early dawn alone.
The light crawled over my skin, revealing more than I wanted, but there was a limited window to catch the informant that had led me to Maddox’s camp. I needed information, but even more, I needed to feed. After the fight, the chase, the flight with the female, I had to top off just in case. I couldn’t be caught unprepared, and Richard was a guaranteed food source if nothing else.
Stalking into the twisted maze that was the metro center, I kept my eyes peeled for any signs of the enemy, but all I saw were humans. They shivered when I passed, and not because it was balls-freezing cold. They didn’t know what I was, why they feared me; they just did. Those who did know believed I was a vampire preying on the weak. I snorted at the idea, my breath a heavy white plume in the air. I was Archai, not vampire, but the fact that I had to feed only added to the mythology of the world, a mythology based solely on a single species’ existence: my species.
Shifters had evolved alongside humans since both their ancestors had crawled from the primordial sludge and developed appendages to grab and walk with. The Archai, fortunately, had been blessed with a larger genetic strand, allowing for both the psychic and physical talents my species enjoyed. We fed off blood like the vampires of myth, though not exclusively—a juicy double cheeseburger would make my mouth water and my stomach growl any day—but what truly set us apart were our shifter gifts. Most Archai males possessed a shifted form, and each form had become, over millennia, the basis of human legend.
For me, that form was a griffin—part lion, part eagle, with wings and flight and a strength that rivaled the strongest Archai. Others had different forms and different gifts: the phoenix, with their rejuvenating powers and the gift of flight; the werewolves like Maddox, with speed and cunning and uncanny hunting skills; mermen, able to breathe underwater and communicate telepathically from thousands of miles away; even “normals,” as they were called, Archai with no shifting form, the basis for the belief in Dracula. Even they, considered the least of the Archai due to their lack of a second form, were stronger and faster and more powerful than any human could ever hope to be. My race and humans lived a symbiotic reality, the Archai an unseen, largely unknown vein running just below the surface world of a species that could never understand our kind, our gifts, our purpose.
And, being practically immortal, the depths of our betrayals.
As I approached the corner of Welsh and Jackson Streets, the corner Richard usually hung out on, a small crowd of regulars hovered together around the stop sign. The mingled scent of chilled skin, old food, and fatigue permeated my nose even a block away. My particular human, however, was nowhere to be found. With the patience of long practice, I crouched in a shallow doorway and waited.
Finally, over an hour later, the human rounded the corner. He stopped at the small knot of men, hands fisted in his pockets, hearty greetings leaving his lips, but the way his eyes continually scanned the streets on both sides said something was up. When I started toward the corner, that shifty gaze landed on me. The immediate widening of Richard’s bloodshot eyes confirmed my guess even before the man took off, back the way he’d come.
Really, humans were stupid.
I spun in the opposite direction and turned into the next alley, running parallel to the street Richard was on. A burst of speed drove me down to the next road and up the other side of the block before the man could get past me to safety.
A quick snatch and grab and Richard’s quivering body dangled from my grip. The feel of his struggling, the stench of his fear in my nose had satisfaction surging. I dragged him relentlessly down a backstreet and into the dark recesses of an alley. “We discussed this, didn’t we, Richard?” I bared my fangs, and the red-veined whites of Richard’s eyes made another appearance. “Where did you think you were going?”
“I-I… Nowhere, s-sir, no—nowhere.” He swallowed hard, the saliva a solid lump as it passed through the fist tight around his neck. “I wasn’t going anywhere!”
At least the idiot wasn’t pissing himself. I had to feed, not put up with the stink—even if the occasional poor slob wetting himself in fear did appease something inside me that had nothing to do with blood.
Yanking the trembling man close, I forced his head to the side, baring his neck and a pulse that threatened to burst through his jugular. My mouth watered. I struck quick, fangs piercing the vein, retracting, a snake strike intended to open access to the blood flow without marring the victim’s skin. If I allowed my fangs to push a bit deeper than usual, if I was a bit rougher than I normally would be, that was all the human deserved. I fastened my mouth onto the weeping bite and drank deep.
The blood welled in my mouth, my body soaking it up even as I swallowed, the nutrients it contained filling out my blood cells with every suck. When my belly was full and Richard was listing, I lowered him to the ground behind a garbage bin and crouched over him. The scent of AB neg overtook the stink of trash, thank fuck.
Richard fumbled in his coat pocket, fingers trembling. I allowed a toothy smile as I retrieved a cloth square from his pocket and applied pressure to the sluggishly bleeding wound.
“Now, where were you going?” I asked.
Richard shivered, his knuckles turning white as he pressed the cloth tighter to his jugular. “I’m sorry. I was…I was scared.”
“And that matters why?”
“It doesn’t.” He closed his eyes, drew a ragged breath. “I’m sorry.”
I should feel sorry for the man. Homeless. Needy. Men like him were easy pickings for the Anigma—and for creatures like me. But I didn’t have that in me. Instead I took pity on him by pacing off a few steps, allowing my anger to calm, giving the human a few minutes to pull himself together. Richard knew better than to take off again without permission.
When my tension had settled enough to bring my voice down to only faintly menacing, I knelt before him again. “What happened?”
Richard laughed, the sound both weak and verging on hysteria. “The compound. They…came back a few hours ago.”
I didn’t have to ask who. I didn’t have to ask anything; Richard deflated like a spent balloon, words pouring out with the escaping air.
“The commander, he was—” The word wobbled hard. “He was wounded; several of them were. But him…God. Then they told him the target—that’s what they called it, the target—wasn’t with them. He lost it.” Richard opened his eyes, and in them I saw how badly Maddox had taken that particular piece of news. “He grabbed one of the workers, and he…he ripped—” Richard lurched to the side and puked.
I stepped away from the mess. So Maddox wasn’t happy; my instincts had been right on the money. The smile I gave Richard this time was genuine. The shiver that ran through him told me he didn’t appreciate that fact.
Richard used the bloody handkerchief to clean his mouth. When he finished, I asked, “Is he alive?”
“God, no. His head was—”
“The commander.” If the man who’d been killed worked for the Anigma, as Richard did, then he was expendable.
Richard rolled eyes shining with confusion and fear up at me. “He had a hole…” One hand rubbed his chest. “Yeah, he’s alive. Barely.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “How, I don’t know. The others didn’t either. They said even a sadistic SOB like him might not be stubborn enough to survive that.”
I grunted. I could’ve schooled them all on exactly how stubborn Maddox was. The bastard would survive anything but a severed spine.
“The target…”
Richard’s voice lost all strength at my sharp look. “What about the target?”
Richard cleared his throat. “They said it had to be found. A million dollars, that’s what they offered. A million dollars to the person who found the target and delivered it to Maddox within forty-eight hours. What”—another cough—“what are they looking for?”
Without answering, I pulled a wad of cash out of my pocket, counted out the usual amount, then added a hundred. “How do they plan to find her?”
“Her?” Richard eyed the money warily, but his lips pressed tight together. Maybe the man had some loyalty yet, or sympathy for the weaker sex.
I hissed a warning.
The human flinched. “W-werew-wolves.”
The stuttered word lilted up at the end, almost a question. I ignored it. Maddox’s werewolf brothers were never far from his side. If Maddox was bringing them in, they would be on the female’s trail in far fewer than forty-eight hours. The bounty guaranteed every other asshole in the area would be searching too. I had to move her, but in her state, moving might kill her.
Good thing I had another option.
When I crouched beside Richard again, the man’s flinch banged his head against the brick wall behind him. Letting the distraction do its job, I gripped the human’s clothes at the neck and pulled, grasping my knife in the opposite hand. When the muscle running from Richard’s shoulder to his thin neck was bare, I cut a shallow furrow about three inches long just above his collarbone, watching dispassionately as blood spilled onto the frizzled hair coating Richard’s chest. When the human tried to touch the wound, a single glance froze him in place.
“What—”
“Shh.” The sound was more croon than rebuke. “I need you to take a message.”
Richard nodded, dread obvious. It should be. Where he was going, there was no guarantee he’d come out alive. He was going anyway; I would make sure of that.
I murmured the instructions straight into the human’s mind. Then I tossed his money into his lap and walked away.