Bloodborn (17 page)

Wyoming whizzes past in a blur of trees and gray hills. Or maybe that's just what it looks like to me, since I'm too distracted by Cyn's bittersweet scent. Maybe it's because I'm sitting so close, or maybe it's because I finally changed into a wolf, but now I'm smelling all sorts of little pieces to the scent: the fading vanilla of her shampoo, the warm-fur aroma of her hair, and an almond sweetness that might be her skin itself.

God, I wish we were alone.

Randall's cell phone buzzes, and he drives one-handed while he fishes it out of his pocket. He flips it open and reads a text. “Really.”

“What?” I say.

He flips it shut again and says nothing.

It's got to be past noon now, and my stomach is definitely letting me know it. Randall and Cyn both seem to be ignoring its louder and louder growls. We pass a billboard with a giant, juicy burger on it, and it's all I can do not to drool. And on another billboard, a reclining, half-naked lady. No, more like three-quarters-naked. Her curly blond hair tumbles around her face, and she bites her finger between red lips. Her boobs strain against her almost-see-through-but-still-PG13 button-down shirt, like gravity doesn't exist.

I read the fiery red letters on the sign. “
Demon Dan's
. Wow.”

“Wow?” Cyn says. “I can't believe you're drooling over
that
.”

“I'm not! It was that burger billboard, I swear.”

“That's disgusting,” she says, but she rolls her eyes.

Randall laughs. “That's our next stop.”

seventeen

D
emon Dan's turns out to be a windowless strip club just off the highway, right next to one of those huge gas stations with long parking spaces for truckers. On the walls of Demon Dan's, painted silhouettes of curvy women with devil's tails and horns strike sexy poses with pitchforks and beckoning fingers.

I've never been to a strip club before. Can't pretend like I'm not at least curious.

“Oh, damn,” Cyn sighs.

“What?” I say, hoping my thoughts aren't plain on my face.

“This is going to be interesting,” Randall says softly.

The cherry-red convertible cruises into the parking lot with Isabella behind the wheel. Before her sister even kills the engine, Jessie hops out in sunglasses and spiky sandals and clicks her way over to Cyn. The way Jessie's crimson lips form a deadly sneer, I step in front of Cyn like I might be some sort of shield.

“Honey,” Jessie says straight past me, “I am so very disappointed in you.”

Cyn sidesteps from my shadow and meets the werewolf's gaze. “What did you expect?”

“A little bit more loyalty from someone who's been given so much freedom.”

“You're asking me for Stockholm Syndrome?” Cyn laughs. “Not going to happen.”

Jessie advances, her sneer curling into a snarl that bares her long white fangs. “We treated you like you were one of us.”

“Sweetie.” Isabella strides from the convertible and takes her sister by the arm. “That's exactly the problem. You've been treating this poor human girl as if she's a werewolf. As if she's your very own bloodborn.”

Jessie's snarl melts into a pout. “I've never had a bloodborn of my own.”

“Whoa,” Randall says, stepping forward. “Jessie, don't even go there. We can't have you turning hostages into more trouble.”

I can't tell if Cyn looks flattered or creeped out.

Jessie sighs. “I apologize.” But then her face hardens again. “Don't you try running off again, human, you hear?”

Cyn nods, though of course I know she's lying.

“Done?” Randall says. “We've got to get moving.”

And so we all enter Demon Dan's. The sagebrush-sweet perfume of faerie wine soaks the air and tingles in my nose. The shadowy room in the front thumps with the beat of techno coming from beyond a curtain. The lady at the desk has death-white skin and bobbed black hair so sleek it looks plastic. Not to mention huge boobs.

She wrinkles her nose at our smell. “Werewolves?”

Isabella gives her a chilled glance. “Yes. Our Alpha wishes to speak with Dan.”

“He's busy,” says the death-white lady.

“If you're lying, leech … ” Isabella lets it hang in the air.

Leech? Christ, this lady must be a vampire. And maybe Isabella doesn't like being one-upped in the seduction department.

The vampire sighs, then says, “He's in the back. Have your Alpha meet him there.”

Isabella nods, then slips her cell phone from her tiny purse and dials. “Winema? Yes. Yes, the back room. We'll meet you there.”

Jessie strides straight toward the velvet curtain. She pinches it between two nails and pulls it aside as if it's dirty, and Isabella slips through. Randall hovers behind me and Cyn, so I have no choice but to follow them.

My brain shuts off when my eyes overload.

Rainbow lights crisscross the darkness, shining on exotic dancers crouching in cages, clinging to poles, strutting by the bar. A bikinied woman with stoplight-red skin wraps her tail around a pole and slides down; another poses onstage, her platinum-blond hair the exact color of her feathery wings; a third ripples against the bars of her cage, her body sort of see-through. Not like a ghost, but like a woman made of glass.

“They're all Others!” Cyn says over the thudding music.

I look closer at the see-through woman. She has liquid skin and swirling white hair like waterfall foam. When she twists my way, my breath snags in my throat. She's totally naked, with sleek, sexy curves and generous breasts.

Cyn clutches my sleeve. “An undine!” she shouts in my ear, as if I'm not already deaf.

Randall grabs us both by the shoulders and hauls us through the strip club and into the back room, where it's whole a lot darker and less exciting.

On a pink velvet couch, a man sits with crossed legs. G
oat horns peek out of his dark curly hair. He's got this weird smell to him, like burnt sugar. He slides a glance from Jessie, to Isabella, to Cyn, where his gaze lingers until her face
reddens. He says something in Spanish that sounds an awful lot like a nasty pickup line.

Cyn's face goes from a normal blush to volcanic. “Pretending like I didn't understand,” she mutters to me.

The man laughs, flashing a smile I'm sure girls think is hot. “Charmed.”

“Demon Dan,” Randall says. “Our Alpha.”

Winema stands in the doorway, Charles at her heels. The fact that she's having a baby soon looks totally out of place here, but she looks almost bored. “Demon Dan. That's a fairly new name for you, isn't it, Danathiel?”

Demon Dan flinches, his smile dimming. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me that.”

Is this guy really a demon? Why isn't he red like that pole dancer?

“We need to find Cliff Sterling,” Winema says.

Dan's smile shuts off. “Now why would you do a thing like that?”

Winema paces closer to him. “We need his help.”

“Oh, you must be fucked.” Dan laughs humorlessly and twists a curl around his finger. “Are you in trouble with the law again?”

“Some people aren't as adept at bending the rules.”

“You flatter me,” Dan says coldly.

“You owe me a favor. Where's Cliff?”

“Have you met him? This is the man who grills mermaids when he feels like seafood.”

“An urban legend,” Winema says. “And yes, we've met before. Unfortunately for us, we've lost touch, and I don't know where he calls home. But I'm sure you do, considering how much faerie wine you sell here.” Her voice roughens. “Does your queen know about your dealings in the black market? I doubt it.”

Queen? So he's got to be a faerie. Not a very powerful one, though, if he's working for werewolves and not the other way around.

Dan arches his eyebrows. “She doesn't.”

“Danathiel, I don't have very much time, which means I have even less patience.”

He grimaces at her use of his true name. “Well, Cliff Sterling isn't here.” When Winema growls, he adds quickly, “Try the Moonshine, down in Denver. You won't be able to find it on the map. It's beneath Rex's Steakhouse, through the back door. Tell him that I sent you, if you enjoy keeping your hides intact.”

“I will,” Winema says. “Anything else we should know?”

Dan shrugs. “If you don't mind me asking, why do you have a human with your pack?”

Winema glances at Cyn. “Hostage.”

Cyn keeps her face perfectly cool.

Dan raises his eyebrows. “You
are
in trouble with the police. You'd best be on your way.” He pauses. “Is the favor returned?”

Winema shares a glance with Charles, who nods. “Yes.
”

Everybody follows her back out, with me and Cyn at the rear.

“What,” Dan calls after us, “no goodbye kiss?”

Cyn gives him an acidic glare over her shoulder.

His laugh sounds like icicles snapping. “Good luck with the Zlatroviks,” he says, like we're really going to need it.

Cyn returns to the red convertible, so it's just me and Randall in the pickup. I'm sad to see her go, but glad I'm not constantly distracted anymore. We gnaw on strips of beef jerky and chug soda without stopping, just drive and drive. I'd love a Bigfoot Burger right about now, but this doesn't seem like the time to stop.

Fatigue creases Randall's face. His eyelids lower as he nods in time with the radio.

“What's this music?” I say, to keep him awake.

“Vivaldi. The Four Seasons, Concerto Number Two in G Minor. This one is Summer.” Randall turns up the volume. “Listen.”

On the strings, flurries of falling notes, hard and fast. When I close my eyes, I see pelting rain and lightning ripping the sky.

“Reminds me of a storm,” I say.

“Me, too.”

We listen to the music whirl and quiet. Evening soaks through the sky like purple ink. Sunset takes forever to die above the prairie. The lights of scattered towns blink on, firefly-bright, in the long stretch of dusty darkness.

Randall's eyelids droop lower.

“I can drive,” I say.

He glances at me, his eyebrows raised.

“Just tell me where we're going, and I can drive. You look beat.”

Randall looks back out the windshield, then pulls off the road. “All right.”

He slides out of his seat. As we cross paths in front of the hood, he gives me a glance. Not wary, exactly, but still calculating.

I buckle myself in. “Denver?”

He sits in the passenger's seat and stares straight ahead, his eyes distant. “Denver.”

I release the parking brake and give the truck some gas.

We slide into a monotony of tires humming on pavement, the rumbling engine, and the fading sound of Vivaldi. At last, the radio disintegrates to static. I lean over and switch if off. Randall's head slumps against the back of the seat.

I let him sleep, and keep driving.

The hollowness inside me gnaws harder. I'm a werewolf now. One of the pack. I'm living with them, running with them.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Brock? A career fugitive?

I grip the steering wheel tighter. Klikamuks is looking less and less possible. Maybe I can find a new town, not too far away, where they wouldn't care too much if a new werewolf slipped into their forest on full moons. I wouldn't hurt anybody. I wouldn't even scare the neighborhood dogs. Of course, that would be like asking somebody to let black widows build webs in their basement. Even if the spiders promised not to bite.

I'm beginning to realize just how fucked I am.

In a side mirror, I see a green SUV tailgating us. As we round a curve, I read the gold letters painted on its side:
SHERIFF
.

Wow. I just got that much more fucked.

I give the truck more gas. The needle on the speedometer slides up to seventy-five. The sheriff's SUV keeps pace.

“Randall?” I realize I'm whispering, as if the sheriff can hear. “Randall!”

His head snaps upright, and he blinks at me. “How long was I out?”

“Don't know,” I say. “Look behind us.”

He twists in his seat, then swears.

We're going eighty now, and the sheriff's SUV turns on its siren. I clamp my hands on the steering wheel and glance at Randall.

“Pull over,” he says.

“What the hell! Why? We can't just turn our—”

“We're not as fast as them.”

“Oh.”

I grit my teeth and ease up on the acceleration. We coast down to seventy.

“Brock. Pull over.”

“Shit fuck fire.”

I stomp on the brake, and the truck fishtails. Randall yanks on the steering wheel, and we skid to a halt on the side of the highway. The SUV stops behind us, its red and blue lights whirling, blinding in the rearview mirror. A police officer shuffles through papers on a clipboard, slowly, taking his goddamn time.

“Oh, Jesus,” I say. “He's not Royle.”

Randall looks like he'd enjoy skinning me. “What the hell did you think?”

Just some random sheriff who saw me speeding. And I could have gotten away.

“What are we going to do?” I say.

He looks at me, his eyes black, and shrugs. He's given up, hasn't he?

The police officer exits the SUV and strides up to my window. He shines a flashlight straight into my eyes, and it's all I can do not to bare my teeth. He taps on the window. Squinting, I roll it down.

“Is there a problem, officer?” I say.

It's so dumb that he squints right back at me. “Excuse me?”

I say nothing.

“Can I see a driver's license and vehicle registration?”

Of course, I don't have a license on me. I stare blankly at the officer.

“Sir,” Randall says, “he hasn't got one.”

The officer moves the flashlight beam onto his face. “Explain.”

“He doesn't have his license yet,” Randall says.

“Yeah.” I force a laugh. “Keep failing that test.”

“Let's see a learner's permit, then,” the officer says.

My face heats. “See, I kind of left that at home, and—”

“Step out of the car,” the officer says. “Both of you.”

I clench the steering wheel even tighter, claws breaking from my fingernails. My heart thuds hard against my ribs.

Slowly, Randall unbuckles his seat belt. He meets my eyes, and nods.