Death's Rival (26 page)

I woke to the sound of gunfire, my hands grabbing for weapons.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

And Then He Changed His Pants

I analyzed the sound patterns as I checked the Walthers, stuck one in my waistband
against my spine, and shoved extra magazines in pockets. The gunfire was coming from
downstairs, and I hadn’t seen a shooting gallery. It was still daylight out, which
meant no vamps, and I was betting there were no weres or witches living openly here;
therefore it was a good guess that we were under attack by humans. De Allyon’s people
had heard we were here, and decided on a preemptive attack. “Dang small-town gossip
factory,” I whispered.

I opened the door and slid into the hallway, trying to get my sleep-clogged brain
up to speed and remember the layout of the house. I shut the door behind me and quickly
checked the other rooms. I didn’t smell anyone, but it would be stupid to risk leaving
an enemy behind me in case the external security had already been breached. Each room
was empty and I closed the doors, leaving myself in shadow.

Beast moved up through me, padding softly, her head low and shoulder blades high,
stalking. My vision sharpened as she slid into the forefront of my brain. I moved
right, to the stairs, and down, my back against the wall, my bare feet silent, listening
to the number and placement of shots, and wishing I had grabbed up my nine-mils. The
weapons had better stopping power.

The gunfire was coming from the front and the back, which told me that they hadn’t
gotten inside yet. By the level of gunfire, I could tell that there were three bogeys
at the front entrance, but only one defensive shooter inside. There were at least
five bad guys in the backyard. So much for only pole-vaulters getting in over the
back wall. A shotgun sounded from the back, a double-barreled boom-boom. We hadn’t
brought any shotguns. Had someone gotten inside?

A .380 held at my thigh in a two-hand grip, I stuck my head around the back entry
opening, looked around, and stepped back, assimilating what I had seen. Eli and Wrassler
were on either side of the back entrance. In the mudroom, the back window was busted
out, and Esmee stood there, an old pump shotgun at her shoulder. Her scarlet hair
was in disarray, and she had a fierce grin in place as she reloaded. Three pistols
were on a tall stool by her hip. Oookaaay. An eighty-year-old Annie Oakley. I peeked
back again. A small black low-riding SUV was parked in the yard; it hadn’t been there
before. Wrassler was taking aim at the wall of the garage, and when a head peeked
out, he fired, a fast three-tap. He killed some brick, but the man jerked back.

“How many?” I called out between shots.

Eli swiveled his head over his shoulder as he ejected one magazine and slammed in
another. “Five that I can count.” His face was set in the emotionless lines of the
soldier under fire, but his eyes were fierce. “Alex is in the garage. He went back
out to get one of his electronic things. I don’t think they know he’s there.”

I dialed Alex’s phone, hoping it was on vibrate or that the sound of his ring tone
was hidden under the gunfire. When he answered, I said, “Are you safe?”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” he whispered. “There are people with guns everywhere!”

“Are. You. Safe?”

“Yeah. For now.”

“Where?”

“I locked myself in the limo.”

I chuckled. “Good move. Stay there.”

I ended the call and said, “Kid’s good. He’s locked in the limo.”

Eli fired off three shots. Wrassler fired off three shots and ejected his magazine.
In the mudroom, Esmee fired off two rounds and I nearly went deaf.

“I’ll reload,” Wrassler said, starting on the empty magazines.

“I really need to teach the Kid how to shoot,” Eli grumbled. But some of the fierceness
had left his eyes.

“I’ll check on the front,” I said. “It’s gone quiet.” Placing my bare feet carefully,
I stepped through the house, from room to room, checking each one as I moved. When
I reached the front of the house, I spotted Bruiser on one knee behind a sofa, which
would provide zero protection from bullets, but did hide him from sight. Three empty
magazines and a semiautomatic were at his knee. He was out of ammo or his nine-mil
had jammed. In a two-hand grip was an old, long-barreled pistol, one I hadn’t seen
before. He was waiting for a frontal assault to come through the door. Idiot.

A shadow moved near the entrance. Then another. Two forms rushed through, moving with
the speed of freshly fed blood-servants. I started to lift my weapon.

Bruiser
moved
and everything happened out of order. Faster than I could process. He straightened
his back, raising above the sofa. Fired four shots, so close atop one another that
they seemed to overlap, with the barest hint of a pause between shots two and three
as he readjusted his aim. The two blood-servants fell, the one in front sliding sideways,
hitting an easel holding an ugly painting, sending both spinning. Bruiser practically
flew across the sofa and caught the painting. The other blood-servant fell with a
hollow thump. Bruiser set the painting on the sofa. The easel landed with a crash
on the floor. He checked the two he had dropped.

I whipped back behind the wall.
What the heck?
I had never seen anyone except a vamp move so fast. I remembered Katie saying to
him, “
You will live. And still mostly human . . .
” What was Bruiser now? How close to being a blood-sucker was he?

I made a faint sound and stepped out. Bruiser was at the front entrance, scanning
the yard. “We’re clear here,” he said, without turning around. He closed the front
door with a snap, and the dead bolt settled into its slot.

“Good,” I said, sounding almost normal. “I’ll go help with the back, then.”

Bruiser turned to me, his brown eyes taking me in. His roaming gaze paused at the
sight of my bare feet, lifted, and stopped at my chest.
Oh yeah. No bra. White T-shirt.
A warm smile lit his face and he met my eyes. Beast’s claws dug in hard as she stared
back. Heat hit me. That deep, limb-numbing heat of unexpected, pure lust. Electric
shocks sizzled through me, settling in the palms of my hands, soles of my feet. My
breasts tightened. Heaviness weighted my lower belly with need.

I should be mad at Bruiser.
I am mad at him,
I thought.
He betrayed me
.

Mine,
Beast thought. Which explained a lot.

Gunfire sounded from the rear of the house. A scream echoed in the backyard. I should
have been moving that way. Instead, I was standing, gun gripped in both hands, as
Bruiser crossed the room, slowly this time. He moved like a dancer, all lithe grace,
the soles of his shoes making no sound beneath the concussive damage to my ears. Beast
held me down and unmoving.

The gunfire at the back of the house fell silent. Our side had won, I guessed.

Bruiser holstered the long-barreled weapon in a shoulder holster and took my Walther
out of my hand. His other slid around my nape, under my braid. He leaned into me,
his body so heated it radiated through my clothes. Burning. His mouth landed on mine.
Crushing, his teeth hitting, clacking against mine. I dropped my head back into his
palm, and some feral sound came from my mouth, part moan, part purr, all need. His
tongue slid between my lips. He smelled like caramel, like heated brown sugar, with
a hint of something spicy. He cupped my backside, the gun hard and cold, his hand,
holding it and me, felt like heated velvet.

I melded to him, his taller body fitting over mine as if we were made for it. He shoved
me to the wall at my back. The cold gun vanished. His hot hand lifted me, his fingers
so close—
so close
—to where I wanted them. He lifted me, and my legs went around him, my ankles locking
at his spine. I pressed my center against his hard, long length. Wanting . . .

His other hand slid down the side of my neck and across my collarbone, floated over
my breast, slowing, tightening, fingers pulling at my nipple through my T. My hands
were inside his shirt, sliding across his shoulders. Buttons flew.

A bark of pain sounded above renewed gunfire at the back. We jerked apart, our eyes
holding, our breathing fast, oxygen starved. “This is nuts,” I whispered.

“Bad timing. A bed. Later.” He dropped me and handed me my Walther. Drew his long-barrel.
In sync, we moved down the hall, Bruiser at point. I tried to remember how to breathe.

Wrassler should have been down, as a wound bled at his left side near his waist, soaking
his dark blue pants black, but he was on one knee, firing single shots out the back,
clearly low on ammo. Esmee was at the window, sighting down a target pistol. Eli was
outside; he sprinted across the yard, zigzagging. Esmee took three steady shots, cover
fire. A form behind the pool fell forward and then rolled back into the foliage. Eli
tore for the garage. Someone rose from the garage roof, aiming down. I started to
shout, but Bruiser raced through the short hallway and into the yard, into the sunlight,
raising his weapon.
Moving
. Faster than I had ever seen a human move. Or almost human.

He leaped, his body going horizontal over the hood of the car. In midair, he fired.
Up. Three shots. He landed on the other side, somehow on his feet. Wrassler cursed
at the speed and the perfect landing. The man on the roof fell forward and slid down
the roof tiles. Dead.

That was seven shots. Bruiser had to be almost out of ammo. “How many bad guys left?”
I called out.

Esmee shouted from the mudroom, “One in the yard, three o’clock. I got him in my sights.”

“One in the garage,” Wrassler said.

“Esmee, hold fire,” I shouted. I dove into the yard. Esmee did not hold fire. Instead
she laid down cover fire, each shot behind me but so close I wondered if they were
tearing through my clothes. I reached the side of the garage, stepping over the dead
human on the ground. He was staring at the sky, his mouth open, eyes already drying.
I smelled feces on the cool air.

Bruiser whirled at my movement, checking himself before he fired. “There’s one in
the garage with Eli,” I said. “Blood-servant.” Which meant faster than human, better
eyesight than human, better reflexes than human. Eli was good, no doubt, but none
of us knew how good yet. “Kid’s supposed to be in the limo,” I reminded him.

Bruiser nodded once. “I’m faster.”

Yeah. He was. I checked the yard. Safety’d, tossed him my Walther, and drew the one
at my spine, surprised it had survived the romp in the hallway. “Go,” I said.

Bruiser leaped straight off the ground in a move so catlike that Beast hacked with
delight. Still in the air, he soared through the open garage door. I heard him land,
a faint scuff of sound. Two shots sounded, echoing in the garage. Behind me, Esmee
fired two shots. The last bogey in the yard fell into the bushes. I ran from cover
and checked each of the downed. One was still alive, gut-shot, in agony. He’d probably
live if he got to a hospital in time.

A barrage of shots sounded in the garage, then silence. Eli and Bruiser carried a
woman from the garage and tossed her to the dirt. Dead. The Kid peeked around the
garage door, his face white and eyes wide, an armful of electronic devices clutched
to his chest.

It was only then that I realized I hadn’t fired a single shot. I started laughing.

* * *

This wasn’t something that we could cover up. Sirens sounded in the distance, closing
fast. Neighbors, or maybe Esmee, had called 911. To avoid questions, I took my unfired
gun upstairs and secured it. In minutes the house was surrounded by cops. Esmee trotted
out to them, a big smile on her face. She had taken the time to smooth her hair and
put on lipstick, and she looked the perfect hostess in her bright floral scarf and
her pearls. Bruiser, still in his dress slacks with an unbuttoned shirt, the tails
billowing out behind him, followed her, his cell phone to his ear. He looked like
a fashion shoot from
GQ
—one titled “The Morning After.” Around and in the house were dead humans, their blood
soaking into the parquet flooring and the sculpted garden loam.

Only in the South.

* * *

An ambulance pulled up, the EMTs treating Wrassler’s wound and the wounded bad guy
before leaving with the injured man and two cops riding shotgun. More cops arrived—more
than half the cops in the county and the town gathering, with plenty of plainclothed
guys all trying to be the big dog. Alex and I were the only ones who hadn’t fired
a shot. To prove that assertion, neither of us had any GSR on us. The others of our
group were herded into different parts of the house and questioned, the cops relentless
and suspicious. Alex and I sat on the couch, Alex intent on his electronic searches,
shaking from time to time, his body odor sour with hormones, fresh panic, and old
fear.

At one point, however, the OIC—officer in charge of the shooting scene—made a call.
Then, newly elected Adams County sheriff Sylvia Turpin, who was the many-times great-granddaughter
of the county’s first sheriff, drove up in her marked car. Turpin took her job very
seriously, especially when she discovered that Leo Pellissier’s primo was on-site.
Seemed that Leo had contributed a hefty sum to her election campaign. After that discovery,
Turpin made a series of phone calls, several of the plainclothes cops took calls,
and things began to move along.

Within half an hour, the state crime lab had arrived, bringing a medical examiner,
and we were free to go, though not free to leave town. I wondered who had called in
the big guns. Remembering the cell phone at his ear, I was guessing Bruiser. As the
MOC’s primo and point man, he might be the most powerful human—part human—in the South,
governors and senators included, and when he called in favors, things would naturally
go his way. A New Orleans blood-servant pulled up in an SUV and consulted with Bruiser,
the cops, and the petite, pretty, redheaded little sheriff. While the powers-that-be
conferred, the rest of us retired to the dining room.