Immortality Is the Suck (26 page)

burst into dust. I spun around and ran back down the hallway, but had to

fight the crowd of bikers, blood cows, and various hangers-on who were headed

toward the fight, most of them fully armed.

Caballo wasn't in his room, but I found his sword in the chest of drawers.

There was only one way out of this compound that I knew of, so I headed

back to the brawl in the front room.

I had to hack my way through. I could hear guns going off, but nobody

seemed to care. A burning hot fire shot through my leg and I looked down to

see blood almost spurting from me. Since I was still on the short-term blood

diet, I figured this would bode ill for my eventual survival, so I made my way

toward the kitchen where an even thicker and more intense battle was waging.

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177

A refrigerator had been tipped onto the floor, effectively blocking the doorway.

On the other side I could hear the imprisoned people screaming and I could see

their hands clawing at the stainless steel sides, trying to move the heavy thing

that blocked their way.

I cut off the thick head of the man I remembered with the cemetery

tattooed on his belly and slid in blood and ash down the galley. The refrigerator

was too heavy to lift and then the weight shifted and eased up and I looked

across to see Alberto helping me.

“El Demonio,” he cried out. “Did you start this trouble?”

“No sé. Did you?” We heaved the refrigerator past the halfway point;

gravity took over and it slammed into the wall, wobbled, and remained

standing. A mob of people in blue cotton tieback pajamas, all looking pale and

gravely ill, pushed through the narrow doorway.

And, horribly, were immediately picked off by the room of blood-hungry

demons.

I managed to rescue a man and saw Albert lift a plump woman onto his

shoulder. Keeping them all behind me, brandishing the sword, which was now

starting to really weigh heavily in my wrist and shoulder, we worked our way

toward the front door.

The greatest obstacle at this point seemed to be the ash and blood that

made the area almost too slick to traverse. But the door was unguarded and

hanging open. The yard we ran to, a sea of roaring Harleys, mounted by

bloody-faced demons with guns.

To the horrified residents of the surrounding homes it must have looked

like a vision from Hell. Actually, it looked like that to me, as well. I turned to

share my plan with Albert just in time to duck as he tried to take my head off

with a sword.

“What the fuck, Albert?”

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A. M. Riley

I raised my sword and parried sloppily. He attempted another blow, which

I swiped away with the pommel, almost getting my hand cut off. He stumbled

and the tip of his sword stuck into the ground. An Errol Flynn movie, we were

not.

But he seemed unable to control his violence; his eyes were red and he

was in full demon visage. I felt a little of the bloodlust myself. A desire for

mayhem just burbling under the surface. I backed away from him, looking

around, trying to come up with an exit plan. Across the road, an elderly couple

stood on their front porch in pastel flannel robes, watching slack-mouthed. I

dragged the man I'd rescued across and almost hurled him down their

sidewalk. “Call the police,” I yelled.

Then I dived back into the melee because there was one thing I was
not

going to do. I was not leaving this place without my Beast.

She was in a back shed. Miraculously, beautifully untouched, unsullied.

Her dual carbs bellowed joyfully as I skated down the body- and ash-strewn

driveway and took off downhill, full tilt. I could hear a few bikers in pursuit for

a little while. But for all I knew, they were beating a retreat as well. The real

battle was for supremacy of the compound and nobody really cared if a few

prospects flew the coop.

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179

Chapter Eighteen

I didn't slow down until I'd made it to the Coldwater exit off the 10.

I pulled over to a remote corner of a service station and tried first to call

Stan. The call went straight to voice mail. “Something's gone down,” I merely

said. “Call me.”

Starting at Twenty-sixth Street, I wove up and down the blocks, keeping

an eye and an ear out for any bikers. When I was certain I hadn't been

followed, I turned on to Peter's street. There's a narrow walkway beside his

attached garage. Just wide enough for me to back in my bike and throw the

tarp over it that Peter had always kept rolled up and sitting outside for that

purpose.

I pressed the buzzer and waited.

“Yes?” Even distorted by the speaker box, I could tell the male voice that

answered the call wasn't Peter's.

“Where's Peter?”

There was a hesitation and then I heard, “Babe, there's someone at the

door.”

Babe?

The next voice was Peter's. “Who is this?”

“Adam.”

The buzzer immediately buzzed and unlatched the lock. Peter met me

halfway down the stairs. He was in his jeans and barefoot, buttoning a shirt as

he jogged toward me. “Christ, I thought you'd left town,” he said.

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A. M. Riley

I eyed the man who appeared just behind him. Youngish, slim. A good

dress shirt that he wasn't even bothering to button. “Obviously,” I said.

Peter gave me that “don't start” look. “Jonathan, this is Adam.”

Jonathan? Jonathan? What kind of name was that for a grown man?

He had his hand stuck out at me, so I had to take it.

“Why are you still in town, Adam?” asked Peter. He looked me up and

down. “What the hell has happened to you?”

I must have looked like I'd just crawled out of a slasher movie. Blood on

my shirt, my jeans. Blood on my muddy, shredded boots.

“Didn't you get the note I gave Stan?”

“Note? Stan's on leave for a week. Some kind of family emergency.”

I couldn't believe the motard had neglected forwarding the note to Peter.

“Jesus Christ, I've been held captive in a vampire enclave in Pasadena,

Peter!”

Jonathan cracked a big smile, which died when he saw Peter's face.

Peter glanced around the courtyard in which we stood. Windows opened

into it from every unit. “You may as well come in and tell me about it,” he said.

* * * * *

“So what do
you
do, Jonathan?” It came out like an accusation, but I

didn't much care.

I'd showered and Peter had produced one of the boxes of my clothes from

the garage to change into, so I should have felt better. I didn't.

“I'm a graduate student at UCLA,” said Jonathan.

I shot Peter a look.
Robbing the cradle?
I tried to say with my eyes. He

seemed deaf to my eyeballs' insinuations, however, and sat down again in the

side chair, setting three bottles of beer down on the coffee table.

“Do you have a glass, babe?” asked Jonathan.

“In the kitchen,” said Peter.

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181

I watched Jonathan's tight flat butt sashay into Peter's kitchen. “Nice

trophy wife. Babe.”

“Fuck off,” he replied mildly. “When you said 'vampire enclave' was that

one of your dramatic exaggerations?”

“There were at least a hundred soldiers that I could count. Ozone is a

risen Paolo Spence, and there are a few other OMG members who we all

thought were dead and gone. My former CI Freeway? Was in Mexico, recruiting

more soldiers for Ozone, before he was killed.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait. The dead CI?”

“Undead,” I said. “Try to keep up, Peter. Only now, he really
is
dead.

Dusted. During the riot somebody cut off his head.”

Peter guzzled beer until the bottle was empty and set it down hard. “Say

that again? No, don't.” He held up his hand. “Just cut to the chase.”

“They're declaring war on the Mongols, the HA, and La Eme,” I said.

“Recruits are flooding in from every pissant wannabe gang in town. Per my CI,

they're starting the war with the Angels. They recruit as they go. Peter, imagine

every OMG in Southern California, and every gang, joining forces with the

Mexican Mafia. And the whole lot of them super strong, super fast, bloodthirsty

vampires. It'll take the US Army to stop them.”

It has always seemed to me that the more serious the situation, the more

calm and methodical Peter becomes. Now, he looked very, very calm. Jonathan

came back into the room with a glass and paper napkins for us to put under

our beer bottles. Peter accepted his with thanks.

“You said you talked with Stan.”

“Stan infiltrated Ozone's crew, Peter. We ran into each other there. Lemme

tell you, it was a bit of a shock for both of us.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully, then turned toward Jonathan. “I'm sorry to do

this, but if you wouldn't mind…?”

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A. M. Riley

“Hey, no problem,” Jonathan said affably. “I've got to get back and get

some work done tonight, anyway.” He stood and went into the hallway. I could

hear him in Peter's bedroom. When he came out he was carrying a pullover

sweater and a pair of shoes. The blood rushed into my head and for a second I

literally saw red, but I managed not to demand he tell me what his
clothes
were

doing in Peter's
bedroom.

When the red haze cleared, I saw Peter and Jonathan, who had apparently

not noticed my murderous spell, or were choosing to ignore it, standing at the

door saying their good nights. I almost burst controlling myself. If Jonathan

had even given Peter a peck on the cheek, I don't know what I would have

done, but instead he glanced over at me, smiled warmly at Peter, and merely

said, “G'night, babe. I'll call.”

I had Peter up against a wall and my tongue down his throat before the

college kid's feet had hit the bottom step of the condominium complex.

“Stop,” said Peter, once. But I knew he didn't mean it. Mostly because he

was groping my nuts and trying to get his tongue down my throat too.

We grappled and struggled, more like a wrestling match than lovemaking,

until I had him on his knees on the front doormat, spit and my fingers working

his hole.

“Condom,” gasped Peter.

“Fuck that,” I said. I wanted to come all over him. Come inside him. Bite

my name into the skin of his back and, if necessary, drag him off to my cave

and beat him over the head if he tried to escape.

“Adam!” His voice cut through the insanity happening in my brain, and I

realized I had him almost immobile, arm around his throat, other arm holding

his hips, up to my balls in his hole and my fangs poised over his neck.

It was like seeing yourself in a mirror. A particularly dark and disturbing

mirror. I drew out, released him, sat back on my heels. I didn't know what to

do.

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183

“There's a box of them by the bed,” said Peter.

Right. Okay. I scrambled to my feet, found the box, ignored the state of

the sheets and pillows on Peter's bed for the time being, ran back into the

hallway where he still knelt, head on his arms, eyes closed and breathing

through his mouth.

He moaned when I reentered him, then whimpered a little. “God. God.”

I grunted, pumping.

“Why can't I stop this?” he said, almost to himself.

I slowed. His hand came up and grabbed mine, wrapped my fingers

around his stiff erection. “Touch me.”

I did, and my momentum picked up again, trying to be gentle, his half-

conscious question ringing in my ears.

Peter rocked his hips as I worked him, head down. He got some leverage

and started to really slam back against me. All I could do was hold on, our

thighs slapping together, the burn of friction on my knees and somebody

groaning, probably me. Then, Peter froze, shuddered and issued a kind of

despairing moan as his cum coated my fingers.

I'd been having sex regularly with Caballo, but when I came it felt like I'd

been celibate for weeks.

Then we breathed and eventually separated. Seated side by side on the

rug with our pants around our ankles. I said, “So. Jonathan's cute.”

“Don't start, Adam.”

“I'm not. I'm just observing. He must be like a breath of fresh air.”

“He is,” said Peter, lifting his pants so he could stand up, wander down

the hallway to the bathroom. I could hear the water splashing in the sink as he

cleaned up. By the time he joined me in the living room, he was thoughtful

again.

“You know, I'm surprised Stan didn't say anything to me about a special

assignment.”