Authors: B. D. Heywood
Chest heaving, Tatsu fell flat on the mattress. His sweat-drenched body stank of spunk and shame. “Oh,
fakku
,” he groaned. What the hell was he thinking? But he knew. The name bursting from his lips, the sticky mess clinging to his hand, the after-shocks pulsing through his organ, the surging in his body—all told him.
He’d always faced the truth no matter how harsh. And the truth was he wanted Saito Arisada, wanted to fuck him and be fucked by him. Craved him with a desperation that threatened all reason.
.
T
he double doors of the Snake Pit thudded open under a heavy kick. Chain strode in outfitted in crisp combat pants that contrasted with his scuffed tanker boots. He braced his heavy crossbow over one shoulder. A dee-skin vest dangled from his other hand. His tight tank top barely contained the bulge of muscles across his massive chest. The fabric outlined every ripple of his six-pack abs. His unbraided hair cascaded over his shoulders in ripples of black silk.
The Cajun looked around for his no-show partner, raised one eyebrow before placing his bow on the table. He dug in his pockets—the act stretching his pants across his prodigious crotch—and pulled out a pack of Gauloises. He looked over the flame flickering between his cupped hands and winked at Tatsu. Then, cigarette dangling from his mouth, he began to braid his hair with swift moves made incredibly sensual by their lack of guile.
Tatsu stared utterly captivated at the big man. His eyes fixed on the conspicuous bulge at the big man’s groin.
Shimatta,
he’s pure gorgeous animal. No wonder Galloway’s in love with him! Tatsu’s fantasy jolted to a halt when Galloway strolled into the Pit.
The blond mercenary dropped into his accustomed chair. He knew his smile bordered on the insolent as he looked at the Major glowering down at him. “What’s up, boss?” he drawled.
“Mr. Galloway, what part of your employment agreement did you ignore that requires you to call in immediately on a Red Status?”
“Sorry, Major, didn’t hear the page. Was in the middle of a hot date, if you catch my drift?” Galloway fixed the expected leer on his face. “Hey, partner,
comment ça va
?” he turned to Passebon to cover his lie. He hadn’t dated—hell, hadn’t even had his dick in anyone—since he’d fallen for the Cajun.
A frission of jealousy slithered into Passebon’s gut. Why should he care who Galloway fucked? Never bothered him in the past. Lately, though, he could not stop thinking of his partner in bed with a man. Mentally, Passebon shrugged.
Laissez-faire.
None of his business who Galloway fucked as long as the blond had his back.
The Major’s words cut through Passebon’s distraction. “I apologize for calling all of you in during your two-day leave but this is top priority. Having stated that, Mr. Murtagh also seems to be among those who think dereliction of duty is a fine quality.” He rarely displayed anger, but a scowl crossed his face as the minutes passed and Bana didn’t show.
Kuso,
where in the hell was Bana? Tatsu knew his partner would never ignore a Status Red. Hell, the Irishman lived for this stuff. Had Bana started drinking again? Tatsu’s concern for his missing partner wiped out any other distracting thoughts, including Arisada.
The door at the far end of the Snake Pit opened. Tatsu’s head snapped around expecting to see Bana. No such luck.
Two strangers followed Cooperhayes into the briefing room. The first, middle-aged, dressed in an expensive suite, clutched a battered briefcase to his chest as if it were a shield. His not-quite-in-full-panic gaze locked on to the Major. A slim youth crowded nervously in behind. The boy’s letter jacket and tailored jeans were torn in several places and splattered with blood. Abrasions and deep scratches covered his face and hands. Bruise-dark circles under his eyes contrasted sharply with the sick pallor of his face. His shell-shocked gaze bouncing around the room.
“This is Mr. Robert Terrance, President of Rainier-Scopes University, and Marshal Ortega, a student. Mr. Ortega, please explain what happened.” The Major indicated with a nod of his head that the two clients should sit.
The youth, Ortega, stared at his hands, fingers knotted together in an effort to hide his trembling. In halting, sometimes garbled sentences he told how he and four others from the football team were enticed from Belladonna by two female vampires and imprisoned by a group of vampires.
The boys had been taken to a vampire called the Daimyō. Instantly, Sadomori had killed two of them after screaming that drugs polluted their blood. Ortega managed to escape but two students were still held captive.
The sound of Sadomori’s name hauled Tatsu into the present. With a guilty start, he glanced at the wall clock. Two hours since the Red Alert and still no Bana. Tatsu turned back to the Major who was issuing orders for the rescue operation. The clients, faces filled with a hopeless misery. shuffled out. Lepers separated into teams and left to collect weapons and munitions.
“Mr. Cobb, a moment.” The Major’s sharp command halted Tatsu halfway out the door. “Your partner is not answering his cell. Find him and report back.”
Tatsu’s protest froze in his mouth at the withering look from his boss. “
Hai, wakatta.
” His angry strides took him past the others on his way to the motorpool and his bike. Shit, he would miss the action—all because his damn partner couldn’t stay away from the bottle.
Tatsu pushed the Drifter to insane speeds, redlining the engine until the machine howled. He ripped through the near-empty streets, jumping curbs and skidding around turns. Rationality returned when the Kawasaki became airborne for the second time as he crested a hill. He eased off the throttle but only a little.
Guilt replaced Tatsu’s anger. Had his obsession with Arisada caused him to miss signs that Bana was in trouble? Tatsu had avoided his partner outside work. Hell, more than avoided. He bolted for cover any time Bana even looked like he was gonna say. “What’s up boyo?”
He checked the Whore first. Felt relief when Doris said she’d not seen the Irishman for a few days. Said he might be shacked up with his new girlfriend.
“
Arigatō
,” Tatsu yelled on the way out to the street.
Shimatta
, he had no idea where this girlfriend lived. No, wait. A couple of days ago, Bana was grumbling that he’d been dumped. The man didn’t handle rejection very well. Especially female rejection. Probably why he’d fallen off the wagon.
Tatsu skidded the bike to a halt in front of the Irishman’s apartment. Praying Bana was home, he took the stairs three at a time up to the second floor.
“Bana, open up! It’s Cobb.” He pounded on the apartment door. No answer. He thumped again so hard the heavy door shuddered.
Kuso
, no one could sleep through this much noise. Bana must be out. Or out cold.
“Hey, punk, shut the fuck up. We’re trying to sleep,” one of the Chinese shop owners shouted from below.
“Is Mr. Murtagh home?” Tatsu yelled down the stairwell.
“Probably. That piece-of-shit truck he drives is still out back,” followed by an angry slam.
“
Fakku
.” Tatsu lost all patience, spun on one foot and kicked. With a satisfying crack, the wood splintered. Another slam of his foot and the door bounced open. He almost fell into the darkened vestibule.
The putrid smell hit him like a physical blow. It reminded Tatsu of a slaughterhouse—blood, shit and terror-filled animal sweat. He unsheathed the
wakizashi
and slipped silently through the living room and kitchen. No sign of Bana. Tatsu moved down the hall. The rank stench thickened. His skin crawled at the terror and pain that hung like a thick miasma in the air.
He stepped into the dark bedroom. Saw the huddled form of Bana curled up, facing the wall. Tatsu dashed to the side of the bed and dropped to one knee. The man was still wearing his shoulder holster. His clothing was drenched. He had soiled himself and everything, including his guns, was soaked with sweat, piss and shit.
“Wake up, partner. You missed the Red Flash.” Tatsu felt the back of Bana’s neck. Heat poured off the man’s skin like a smelter. “You don’t look so good. Let me help you.” He tugged on Bana’s shoulder.
The Irishman rolled toward Tatsu. Crimson feral eyes glared up at him. Blood coated the Irishman’s mouth and chin. His lips drew back over four very long, very white fangs.
An animal growl ripped from Bana. Faster than any human, he lunged off the filthy bed. His heavy body drove Tatsu backward into the dresser, which splintered apart, showering them with wood and glass. They crashed to the floor, Bana on top, pinning Tatsu against the filthy carpet. Bana’s mouth struck at Tatsu’s throat. Instinctively, Tatsu blocked the attack with his forearm. Bana bit through the leather sleeve deep into Tatsu’s muscle.
“Stop, Bana. It’s me, Cobb!” he screamed, ignoring the searing pain. With another mindless growl, Bana released Tatsu’s arm, and grabbed his jaw, twisting it brutally sideways with neck-breaking force. Spittle sprayed the air as he lunged for the pulsing line of Tatsu’s jugular.
Tatsu clawed his tanto from his boot and, without thought, began to stab it into Bana’s ribs. An instant before the knife penetrated, the horror of his action shot through him. He flipped the
tanto
around and slammed its hilt against the Irishman’s temple with all his strength—four, five desperate, panic-driven blows. With a sudden, odd grunt, Bana’s eyes rolled into his head, and he went limp.
Tatsu lay for a moment, lungs pumping, adrenalin-flooded muscles shaking. The stocky body lay on top of him like a giant rag doll. He rolled Bana onto his back and crawled to his hands and knees.
Fakku
, he’d nearly killed his partner. Fighting off the edge of panic, Tatsu dug out his cell phone and punched the Colony’s emergency code.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered praying the service would connect. Miracles of miracles, an answering click.
“Cooperhayes.”
“I’m at Bana’s, something’s terribly wrong,” Tatsu shouted into the tiny speaker. A furious feedback screeched into his ear.
“Status, Mr. Cobb?”
“I think he’s turned,” Tatsu sobbed. Shakily, he climbed to his feet and sheathed his tanto.
“Copy that.” Cooperhayes’ usual dry voice quavered as he assured help was on its way. “ETA thirty minutes.”
“Can’t wait.” Tatsu snapped the instrument closed, grabbed the semi-conscious man under his arms and hauled him upright. “Get up, partner, we’ve got to get to the Colony.” He snatched up Bana’s truck keys from the foyer table.
In a grotesque parody of the night they met, the two stumbled down the stairs and out into the thick fog. Tatsu’s desperate grip around Bana’s waist forced the man to keep stumbling along. When they reached the truck, Tatsu struggled to open the passenger door and hold on to his disoriented partner—for he refused to think of the Irishman as anything else. Just as he shoved Bana halfway into the cab, Tatsu heard those distinctive growls, low and hungry.
One by one, the vampires materialized out of the fog. “Hey, hey, what do we have here? Dinner and a drink by the looks of it.” A squat
kyūketsuki
unsheathed his
katana
. “And look at those swords. That’s the punk killing our kind.” Mere hours ago, he had fed from the Daimyō. Now, he burned with a rogue’s insatiable killing rage.
“Sadomori will reward us good if we bring his head in,” another snarled.
“Gets better. Looks like we’ve got a new Clan member,” the lone fem crowed pointing to Bana. The pack’s responding laughter resembled the yips and barks of hyenas circling their prey.
The Irishman’s low growl of recognition alarmed Tatsu. With a strangled croak from deep in his throat, Bana jerked free. He looked at Tatsu. A moment of clarity filled those blood-red eyes. “Let me go, boyo, it’s too late,” Bana pleaded in fang-slurred words.
The entreaty spoken in that disturbing, wet voice devastated Tatsu. “You’re not going anywhere but with me. Get in the truck,” he cried.
For a second, Bana placed one hand on the truck door and looked about to cooperate. The vampires, sensing their prey was trying to escape, swarmed forward. As if by some unspoken agreement, two charged.
With no time to draw his swords, Tatsu grabbed the closest attacker by the front of his jacket, pivoted and kicked him in the gut, sending him reeling back into the second. The vampires collided and crashed to the pavement in a tangle of limbs.
The pack surged forward. “We’re gonna kill you fer that, asshole,” a small bull shouted, lifted a gun and fired.
The bullet grazed Bana’s ear, shattering his daze. Uttering a string of garbled profanities, he jerked the Berettas free and fired wildly in all directions. One burst stitched flaming holes across the torsos of the two vampires on the ground.
“That’s right, run ya cowardly wankers.” Bana jeered at the vampires knocking each aside in a frantic scramble to put distance between them and the maniac with the guns. “C’mon, I’ll take on all of ya.”
At the first explosion from Bana guns, Tatsu threw himself against the only safe place—his partner’s back. “Shut the fuck up, you idiot, we’re outnumbered,” he hissed over his shoulder even as he felt a surge of hope. Maybe Bana was not lost. The man was acting his old, cocky, Irish self.
Pressed against the solid muscle of his Bana’s shoulders, Tatsu’s eyes swept the enemy, counted the number left. Too many. No way were they going to make it out of this.
Kuso
, maybe he would die this night, but he’d take as many down as he could. He whipped out both swords and stepped away from the protection of Bana’s back.
“Ya dumb fucks.” Bana fired both guns again, taking the legs off the nearest vampire, leaving it thrashing and screaming in a bloody heap.
One gun clicked empty. The second jammed. “Bollocks.” He shoved the spent automatic into its holster. Ignoring the pack, he worked to free the Beretta’s slide. A steady stream of profanity about “fekkin’ bloodsuckers” spilled from his mouth. Within seconds, Bana extracted the misfired bullet and chambered a fresh round just as the vampires charged.