A Taste of Crimson Read online

  At the end of the alley, she heard a sudden burst of laughter. Men, drunk. Keeli’s lip curled. There were a lot of bars in east downtown, with patrons of the human and werewolf variety. The only difference was that werewolves rarely drank enough to become intoxicated. There was too much risk. Control over the wolf could be a tenuous thing—for some wolves more than others.

  And let’s face it—no one likes a drunk, wolf or not.

  Especially when they sounded like these guys. Keeli edged around the Dumpster, peering at the alley mouth. The back door of Butchie’s was close to the main drag, so Keeli had a fine view of the sidewalk. She heard the men coming, sounding four strong. A stumbling walk, alternating pace from fast to slow. A pause; the sound of a zipper. Pissing. More laughter.

  I’ll have to remind myself not to walk that way after my shift. I have to deal with enough awful smells.

  From the other direction came a new sound: soft soles, a light quick tread. A woman.

  What timing. Keeli’s stomach tightened as the woman drew near. She would have seen the men by now, who were still motionless, loudly comparing the size of their dicks.

  “Turn around,” Keeli breathed. “Come on, lady. Common sense.”

  Keeli listened hard, heard a shift in the woman’s gait. It faded slightly, but not enough. Not enough. The woman crossed the street; the laughter stopped.

  “Shit,” Keeli muttered. She glimpsed the woman on the other side of the street; walking quickly, almost stumbling over her feet, a short bulky figure wrapped in a long coat. Her curls were blond and bouncing.

  Still, the men were silent. Keeli held her breath. Maybe these guys weren’t shit, maybe they would let the woman go. Maybe—

  The whistles began. Even as Keeli stepped away from the shadows, moving toward the alley mouth, she heard more laughter, low and hard. A growl rose up in her throat.

  “Sweet,” said one man, and another murmured, “Come on.”

  Keeli burst from the alley just in time to see the men take off after the woman. Drunk, but quick, they crossed the street in seconds and ran her down. They became a circle of arms, rough hands; she screamed. There was no question of their intent.

  Then Keeli was there and the wolf was high in her throat, clawing at her skin, roping muscle and bone. She felt a terrible strength, and the fury was worse, rage seething under the shadow of righteousness, hunger. She burst into the circle of men, breaking them apart with sharp kicks, slashing nails into flesh. Close up, they smelled like the docks—fish and machine grease, mixed with alcohol. They were big men, taller than her by a foot, with shoulders thick and broad.

  Keeli slammed her foot into a kneecap, savored the sharp crack, the scream torn from the man’s throat. Hands wrapped around her waist. Keeli grabbed meaty fingers and yanked back; they snapped and she tightened her grip, twisting, grinding broken bone. Her assailant’s screams made her eardrums vibrate. He tried to wrench free, hauling Keeli off her feet. She tucked her knees to her chest and refused to let go. When he whirled near one of his wide-eyed friends, she kicked out, landing a boot heel into the man’s chin.

  Fur pressed though her skin, sleek as her rage, consuming her body as she sank deeper into the fire. Yes, she thought. Yes. This is what I have been pushing away.

  The man trapped against her screamed even louder. Keeli released him and fell to her feet. Her claws scraped concrete. The men ran—this time, away. But in two quick steps Keeli captured a straggler. Strong—the wolf in her was strong—she slammed him into the ground, wrenching his left arm behind his back. Canines slid gently against her lip; her jaw narrowed; her teeth jutted out, sharp. Keeli lowered her head.

  She felt a presence, then, at her side. Strong hands grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked hard. Keeli did not think; she whirled, snarling, and sank her teeth into flesh. Blood filled her mouth, hot and bitter. It tasted good.

  And then—oh, oh, shit, what have I done—the blood turned sour and she ripped her head away, gasping.

  Gone too far, too far. She had bitten a human—and oh, if not one then how about another? Because she wanted it. In that moment she wanted blood, and there was still a man beneath her, the man she had been going to kill, and the old rage felt so damn good. …

  Keeli leaned over and vomited. Again, she felt hands in her hair, gentler this time.

  “It’s all right,” whispered a man, in a voice so dark that Keeli shuddered. Her gaze slid sideways and slowly, slowly, up.

  Sagging leather boots filled her vision, and then black silk robes reminiscent of old Asia, belted tight around a narrow waist, hugging a lean chest and bony shoulders. She saw a pale and striking face, with more bone than flesh, framed by loose black hair threaded with braids. His right cheek glittered.

  And his eyes …

  Keeli stared for one precious moment, lost in the velvet underground of that deep-set gaze. And then came a click, the recognition of Something Not Quite Right, and she realized what he was, and what she had bitten. Relief made her weak, as did humiliation, but she fought for composure, stamping down another fresh swell of inexplicable rage.

  “Vampire,” she growled, embarrassed at how her voice broke on that word. “Get the hell away from me.”

  “No,” he said, so calm, so quiet. As though the warmth dripping on her hand, the blood from his torn arm, meant nothing. Her bite, meaningless. “Not until you release the human.”

  The human beneath her trembled. She smelled urine, sour sweat. His friends were long gone. He was all she had left, and the wolf in her still wanted him dead. One bite, a breaking of his neck. He would never hurt anyone again.

  Never again. No one’s ever going to get hurt again.

  “You must calm yourself,” whispered the vampire, as though he could read her thoughts. He bent so close they brushed noses. Keeli froze. “Please. Control the wolf. You have witnesses.”

  It was the “please” that finally dulled her anger—that, and the urgency in the vampire’s voice. Her gaze darted sideways.

  Jim, Shelly, and a handful of strangers stood a short distance away. Everyone but Jim stared at her with eyes that seemed too full of shock, numb horror, to ever fade away into a forgivable memory. Shelly had her arms wrapped around the victim of the attempted rape, her straight red bob pressed against the woman’s blond curls. Jim stood over them both. He looked worried.

  Shame burned away the rest of Keeli’s rage, sending the wolf in her into swift retreat. Everything she had worked for—trying so hard to fit in; to be, for once, more woman than wolf …

  “This is not how you wish humans to remember your kind,” whispered the vampire, still close. His cheek shimmered: round lines, etched in gold. For the first time, Keeli noticed his scent—dry, with a hint of wild grass, horse hair. The taint of age. “This is not how you wish them to remember you.”

  Keeli looked at her hands, still holding down her shivering captive. She was fully human again. Pink skin, clear nails. She let go of her captive and slid off his back. He continued to lie there, his eyes squeezed shut. She almost touched him—to comfort, to reassure—and then the memory resurfaced.

  “He deserved it,” she said. “Deserved to be scared, for what he was going to do to that woman.”

  “Maybe,” said the vampire. “But you would have given up your own life to do it. He’s not worth that.”

  Keeli looked at the vampire—really looked, hard—and saw nothing but calm acceptance. No anger. She glanced down at his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and it was one more shock to add to her collection: apologizing to a vampire. “Will you be all right?”

  His mouth twitched. “I’ve had worse.” He stood and held out his hand. Keeli refused to touch him.

  Awful, disgusting. Vampires are monsters.

  Monsters beneath a veneer of refinement, big money. Hypocrites and fakes. Pretending to be better, more human than everyone else.

  Maybe this one is different.

  Yeah, and maybe she hadn�
�t just lost herself to the wolf.

  Keeli pushed away, scrambling to her feet. She heard sirens and found herself saying, “You should go. The cops will be here soon. You don’t want to be involved. Not with what’s been going on. …”

  The vampire hesitated. He glanced at Jim and the others, still hanging back, watching. “What of you? I can carry the both of us and fly—”

  Keeli shook her head. “I don’t run. Ever.”

  The vampire’s eyes narrowed. “And will you think I’m a coward if I leave?”

  “You’re a vampire,” Keeli retorted. “I already think you’re a coward. Amongst other things.” She wondered why the hell she was even having this conversation.

  Again, that odd twitch around the vampire’s mouth. “Good-bye, wolf,” he said.

  “The name is Keeli, fang-boy.”

  “Michael. And I’m not the only one with fangs.” He reached out, a blur, and brushed Keeli’s lips with cool fingertips.

  She was too surprised to say a word—surprised at the gentleness of his touch, surprised at her reaction to it. She saw blood on his fingers; he had wiped her mouth.

  “When they ask, you did not bite anyone,” he added quietly, and then the vampire leapt into the air. Up and up he went, a shadow passing into shadow, into the night, until he was gone, not even an outline against the dim stars.

  “Thanks for helping me,” she murmured. The sirens were loud now, eardrum-shattering. She looked at Jim and Shelly, the weeping woman, her weeping attacker. Keeli squared her shoulders and prepared herself for a long and difficult night.

  Chapter Three

  Michael settled on a rooftop just out of the wolf-woman’s sight. From his vantage point he saw flickering strobes of red and blue approaching from several blocks away. Police. The wolf was right—it was dangerous to be involved in anything these days. And the cops might have a mech with them. There had been some discussion of experimenting with the engineered oddities, getting them from the military and putting them on the force to see how they handled the street. Michael had yet to see one himself.

  He gazed down and, even in the darkness, bright pink hair snared his attention. The color could have been lurid, but on the wolf-woman—with her hair already thick and wild—it fit. Fit her pale skin, with the flush of anger in her cheeks. Fit the stubborn set of her small mouth, her delicate chin. Fit the brilliant blue of her intelligent eyes.

  Keeli. He rolled her name around his tongue and decided he liked it—even if it did belong to a woman who bit vampires and kicked the shit out of human men twice her size.

  She wasn’t herself. There was a madness inside of her.

  Rage, awful and pure. He’d seen it before—in himself, no less. It was a powerful high to come down from, but the taste of his blood had smothered the unthinking nature of her anger. And for a moment—oh, the memory—the remorse in her eyes, the self-loathing, had cut him worse than her teeth. Michael knew that feeling all too well. He just had never expected to see it on the face of a werewolf.

  He watched Keeli approach the humans. Some of them shied away, backing off with quick steps. Closer and closer she moved, until at last only four humans remained: a man, two women, the would-be rapist, who was still huddled on the ground. Keeli said something to them. The man nodded. The women remained very still.

  Police cars pulled up, including an assault van, retrofitted for C.C.P.D.’s street-force grunts. Familiar figures poured from the vehicle, rifles raised. They had special guns, split-barrel activity, with only one button separating the different projectiles necessary against the city’s paranormal populations.

  “Hands up!” shouted a lean officer, sporting close-fitting armor and a blond crew cut. He aimed his weapon at Keeli’s face. Jenkins always had good instincts for who was the nonhuman in a crowd—though in this case, it was self-evident.

  But his intent was unjust, badly misplaced. Michael reached inside his robes and withdrew a small digi-encoder. He dialed a pager number. A moment later, everyone in the vicinity heard Jenkins’s side beep.

  Keeli still had her hands up. Michael could not see her eyes from his vantage, but her body was rigid. The male human who had watched her take down the rapist talked heatedly to one of the cops.

  Jenkins nodded at the officer nearest him—Sheila, Michael thought—and lowered his rifle. Glancing around, he walked across the street to a nearby alley. Michael flew after him.

  Jenkins waited out of sight, his hands pressed together with his fingertips touching his chin. Pensive, as always.

  “This is a surprise,” he said, when Michael landed. “Must be the first time you’ve ever paged me.”

  “That werewolf committed no crime,” Michael said, wasting no time on pleasantries. Not that he ever did. Jenkins shook his head.

  “Okay, should have expected that. You want to explain?”

  Michael explained, and when he finished, Jenkins said, “It wasn’t exactly self-defense.” Michael’s jaw tightened and Jenkins held up his hands. “Oh, and you’re going to tell me that chunk outta your arm is just a scratch, huh? Yeah, didn’t think so. Listen, man, you know how it is. Any of you guys show angry fangs to a human, no matter the situation, and the law is gonna come down hard. I can’t change that. It was part of the truce.”

  “She saved that woman from being raped.”

  Jenkins shook his head. “How long have we worked together, Michael? How many years? In all that time, have I ever treated a vamp or wolf unfairly?”

  “Not until now.”

  “Don’t give me that. You helped make this street force what it is. Even if your name was never put to paper, you helped make the rules. And now you want me to break them for you?”

  “Yes,” said Michael, humbling himself. “Please.”

  Jenkins blinked, taken aback. “Is this personal?”

  Yes. “No.”

  Jenkins did not believe him—his expression said it all—but he stayed quiet.

  Michael didn’t know why he cared. There was no good answer to his actions; this was simply instinct, inexplicable and mysterious. Keeli had to be saved—the years of incarceration the law said she deserved would kill her. Just one look in her eyes, and he knew that much. And with all that had happened in the city over the past two weeks …

  For everything I’ve done wrong, if I can do this … just this. …

  “All right,” Jenkins said quietly. “I’ll fix it. But she still has to go to lockup for the night. Processing. And there’ll be a fine. A large one.”

  “How large?”

  A look of sympathy passed over Jenkins’s face. “More than you can afford on your salary, bud.”

  Embarrassing. Michael nodded and backed away, intent on leaving before he shamed himself any further.

  Jenkins frowned. “Wait. There’s something else you should hear. Another vampire was killed. And this wasn’t some random skirmish or gangbang. We found the body on Fourth and Lexington about an hour ago.”

  Michael went very still. “How did he die?”

  “How do you think? Looked like his heart was ripped out. Along with his guts. We still need to check the DNA, but it looks like our serial killer, making his rounds.”

  “A name?”

  “Haven’t made the ID yet. There wasn’t much left. The body’s already turning to dust, but we got to it before full decay. Looked like he was ripped into with someone’s bare hands.” A lengthy pause, and then, “You know what we think all this sounds like.”

  Werewolf.

  Michael didn’t say anything; Jenkins already knew his thoughts on the matter. Despite the enmity between their two peoples, there had been no reported skirmishes between a vampire and werewolf for years. Certainly no mass murders. But now? With tensions rising with humans, and secret negotiations beginning between their two peoples? Too much coincidence. Something odd was going on.

  “Still no leads?” he asked.

  “Nothing. This case is fucked up, Michael. Our killer isn’t leaving
behind any clues. Nothing. No DNA, no footprints, no witnesses. He’s too careful.”

  “If you can’t confirm what he is, then why are you focusing on the wolves? The killer could be human. Vampire, even.”

  Jenkins stared. “If you know a regular man or woman—and I’m not talking a fucking mech, here—who can pull a vampire apart like he’s string cheese, then hell, feel free to let me know.”

  “It was that bad?”

  “As bad as any typical werewolf kill.”

  “Have the wolves been any help at all?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “We’re working with their head honcho. Some old dame. She’s cooperating—on the surface, anyway—but so far it’s been a dead end. No one wants to talk to us.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Funny. Thing is, there’s a rumor at headquarters about another roundup. People are getting nervous, Michael. I’m worried it’s gonna be Chinatown all over again.”

  Chinatown, over a year ago. Seven humans had been killed in a brutal werewolf attack. Every single werewolf in the city was rounded up and interned until the murderer was found. Michael thought the wolves were lucky to have been released at all. There was still talk of confinement, walled neighborhoods. Hysteria and spilled blood never mixed well.

  “I need your help,” Jenkins admitted.

  “You have a werewolf liaison.”

  “Not anymore. Our last informant turned up dead. Throat kill. Vampire.”

  Michael shut his eyes. “This is getting out of hand.”

  “Michael, come on. Gimme a break. We need you on this.”

  He sighed. “I’ll do it, but the wolves won’t talk to me. I won’t even get through the front door.”

  “You will. You’re good at what you do, Michael. Just give it a shot.” He looked nervous.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Michael said.

  Jenkins glanced around, making sure they were alone. “There’s some bad shit going on in the department. No one’s saying anything, certainly not on paper, but the word is that we’re supposed to be completely hands off when it comes to crimes committed against nonhumans. More than usual. If a vampire or werewolf turns up dead, we’re not even supposed to look into it. ‘Just let it pass,’ they’re saying. Pass into what, I don’t know. Except if we do that, we’re allowing major crimes to go unpunished—and no one up top seems to care.”