Black Bullet (The Order of the Senary) Page 2

  Amy lifted the blanket, cool air rushing over Lawan’s mutilated body. The nurse ceased breathing, her heart rate speeding up and pounding against Lawan’s eardrums.

  Her warm hands fell on Lawan’s shins and Lawan whimpered as the nurse slowly spread her legs. After what seemed like an eternity, Amy finally released her and replaced the blanket. Lawan raised her head to look at her, fearing what she’d find.

  Amy’s face was pale, shell-shocked, her jaw slack with disbelief. Her eyes ablaze, she murmured, “What did they do to you?”

  Lawan dropped her head back, squeezed her eyes shut, and wailed as a piece of her soul broke apart and died.

  TWO

  Brooklyn, New York

  Present Day

  The sun dipped below the horizon, night casting its dark shroud over the sky.

  Jon pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his baseball cap as he approached the iron gate of Cypress Hills National Cemetery. The back entrance was on a quiet road, its stone pillars tagged in white graffiti. Don’t you ever laugh as the hearse goes by was scrawled down the length of one; for you may be the next to die down the other. He hopped over the gate, his sneakers hardly making a sound as they hit the wet pavement.

  The air was heavy with rain, the crisp scent of autumn and ozone filling his senses. Wet leaves of various colors lined every crevice of the cemetery, clinging to the headstones in a last ditch effort to survive. Scattered puddles reflected the stars, and where the land dipped, gravestones popped from muddy pools. Jon stuffed his hands in his sweatshirt pocket, the cold seeping into his bones, but his body easily adjusted to the temperature, like a reptile adapting to its environment.

  Two guns rested in his hip holster, one on each side, nine millimeter Glocks loaded with silver bullets. Add in the blades strapped to his wrists, and he was ready for a typical night out in Brooklyn.

  Jon wound his way over the dilapidated path, gazing out across the rows of tombstones stretching in every direction. Cypress Hills was the only national cemetery in New York City, packed with the graves of soldiers, most of them dating back to the Civil War. The cemetery had been maxed out long ago, but they’d managed to fit in one more grave for a former Marine and Federal Agent.

  Shadows danced across the field, ghosts of dead men and dying trees, and there wasn’t a sign of life for miles. Where most would find the utter silence unnerving, Jon found it peaceful, soothing. He’d been visiting the cemetery every week for the past two years, a place where he could collect his thoughts and remind himself of who he’d been.

  Of who he was.

  His sneakers sank into the grass as he cut across the lawn between two rows of tombstones. Names flashed by, names of forgotten men who’d died for their country. Jon had the entire cemetery memorized by now; the monuments, the sections, and he’d read all the headstones, trying to remember those names. He knew which graves still had visitors, which had been vandalized, and which had stood alone for years. After spending so much time here, he’d become possessive of this hallowed ground, protecting it like family.

  After all, it was his only real home.

  He stopped near the last tombstone at the end of the aisle, the rock sitting beneath a flaming red tree, its leaves thinned out to reveal the bones within. He crouched down by the foot of the grave, seven feet away from the pale granite headstone, the rock still bright and relatively new compared to the others. A small American flag had been planted in the ground in front of it, the cloth now limp and stained. There were no flowers on this grave and rarely any visitors, except for Jon, of course.

  JONATHAN JAMES KERR

  MEDAL OF HONOR

  1ST LT

  US MARINE CORPS

  FEDERAL AGENT

  SEMPER FIDELIS

  AUGUST 19, 1983 - NOVEMBER 3, 2016

  Too bad the casket below him was empty.

  They put you in a big black box and cover you up with dirt and rocks.

  Jon pushed the morbid song into the back of his mind, its lyrics still crooning in his ears. Ever since he’d turned, the voices had become louder, shouts of humans, growls of monsters, and whispers of his own demons against his skull. They hadn’t driven him mad yet, but at this rate, it wouldn’t take much longer.

  “That’s quite dramatic, you brooding over your own grave.”

  Jon’s eyes flicked toward the red tree, not the least bit surprised. Rome stood there, dressed in black, wearing a long wool pea coat. His short dark hair was tousled and messy, his demonic eyes glowing in the darkness. Jon hadn’t sensed him since the hybrid was the psychic equivalent of Fort Knox, solid and impenetrable. Considering Rome’s greatest weapon sat inside his skull, it was no wonder.

  And since Rome was the reason why Jon was still alive—or rather, undead—Jon should’ve known the Knight would track him here on the anniversary of his death.

  “Remember, remember, the third of November.” Rome chuckled as he approached the gravesite. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  “You’re a dick.” Jon unfolded himself, straightening. “What are you, my stalker now?”

  “Always and forever.” Rome smiled, his teeth bright white in his shadowed face. His golden gaze settled on Jon’s tombstone, his black pupils slicing his irises horizontally like goat eyes.

  “Got to admit, that’s a nice looking rock. I hope mine looks that . . . noble.” Rome rapped on the granite with his knuckles.

  “If they find your body.”

  “Who needs one?” Rome shrugged. “You didn’t.”

  “Fuck you, man. What do you want?”

  Rome took a seat on Jon’s headstone, making himself comfortable. “Well, instead of you pouting here like a grumpy kid, how about you take out some leeches and unleash some of that rage? There’s been a flurry of Temhota activity in Williamsburg and I think there’s a new cell developing. You up for it?”

  Jon crossed his arms over his chest, his heart pumping a little faster. “Just me?”

  “Just you. You can have them all to yourself. Word is they’re some of Ramsden’s old cronies.”

  “Regin?”

  Rome shook his head, leveling his goat eyes on him. “Taylon.”

  Taylon Ramsden. The leech who’d started it all.

  “My present to you.” The corner of the hybrid’s mouth lifted. “Kaj and I will be sweeping Manhattan and Shaul will be just north of here in Queens. If you need backup, let any one of us know.”

  “I won’t need backup.”

  “Of course not.” Rome pushed off the granite and clapped Jon’s shoulder, his expression growing solemn. “What’s done is done, Jon. You know I had to do it. We had to do it.”

  Jon stared at the Knight from beneath the brim of his hat, remaining still. No. You didn’t. “I’m taking one of the Camaros.”

  “Be my guest. They’re practically yours anyway.” Rome turned to leave, walking several paces before tossing Jon a glance over his shoulder. “You coming?”

  Jon looked back at his tombstone, finding a brand new flag in place, the colors crisp and vivid against the granite. Shaking his head, he fell into step behind one of the hybrids who’d managed to trap his human mind and soul inside his fledgling vampire body.

  Rome was right about one thing—Jon had plenty of rage to unleash. And Taylon’s rejects were the perfect way to start.

  Jon walked down Kent Ave toward 5th street, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge.

  The decaying carcass of the Domino Sugar refinery stretched out to his right, a row of hulking, graffiti-ridden brick buildings. A parking lot spanned his left, barbed wire coiling on top of a rusted chain-link fence. At the far end of the lot, several cars were parked, a variety of big SUVs and sports cars. Jon picked up the pace, seeing a few dark figures moving from the lot toward the refinery.

>   He wore his full gear—black battle uniform, two nine-millimeters, two forty-fives, and four blades hidden on his person. Both the Knights’ and the Temhota’s garbs were quite similar, making it hard to tell one monster from another. Jon had tugged a black ski cap down over his head for good measure, keeping his pale face and obsidian eyes exposed. He looked just like one of Konstantinov’s minions, permanent fangs and all.

  Scanning the area, he felt exposed as he strode through yellow pools of streetlight. Voices murmured in the distance and an occasional gust of wind whipped up the trash and debris in the street. Up above, the stars glimmered like ice chips within the clear, cold sky. A truck roared past him, blasting music from Slipknot.

  Jon measured the length of the building, the ground level windows covered in corroded security bars, no longer protecting anyone. The leeches had taken most of New York City shortly after the Insurgency over five decades ago. Most of Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, and all of Staten Island and Jersey were lost. The mass exodus out of the islands had been chaotic and the collateral damage was immense; millions upon millions of humans had died. Every once in a while Jon would run into a normal who’d managed to tuck themselves away in the bowels of Tribeca or Soho, surviving there for God knew how long. Here in the Big Apple, the leeches ruled with an iron fist, and humans were an endangered species.

  Now the goal was to keep the parasites from spreading any farther.

  Jon took a sharp right at 5th, the East River dead ahead and the steel behemoth of the Brooklyn Bridge looming over him. A gantry crane stood in the distance on the waterfront, a ghost of Brooklyn’s industrial past. A group of vampires were gathered around a staircase that led into the side entrance of the Adant house, talking and laughing amongst themselves. They too were armed to the teeth, and the way they carried themselves shouted Temhota.

  Jon sauntered over to them, keeping the tension out of his muscles. His heart thudded in his chest and adrenaline spiked his bloodstream, but he managed to remain calm and relaxed. Three vampire heads turned toward him, narrowing their coal black eyes as they stepped forward.

  “Evening, soldier.” The first, a tall, ugly bastard with a patch over his eye, gave him the once-over. “Let’s see the mark.”

  Jon grabbed the neckline of his shirt and yanked it down, revealing the tattoo below the hollow of his throat. The archaic symbol was dark red and the size of a tennis ball, representing Konstantinov’s bloodline.

  The pirate leaned in to examine it closer, raising a hand to touch it. Jon caught his wrist before the leech could lay a finger on him. The rest of the vamps went for their guns.

  Jon smiled humorlessly, flashing his fangs. “That’ll cost you, big boy.”

  The pirate’s lip curled in disgust as he snatched back his arm. “Stats.”

  Jon rattled off a rank, unit, and branch. The vamps eased down, dropping their hands.

  “How come I’ve never seen you round here before?” a second asked, wearing a nasty scar on his Hispanic baby face.

  “I’m based out of Midtown and came down for a visit. Are you going to let me in or what?”

  “You’re one of Ramsden’s,” a third announced, staring at him unnervingly.

  Jon’s eyes flicked across each of their faces. “Yeah. I am.” Unfortunately, it was the truth.

  “What is this, a fucking convention?” the pirate grumbled as he stepped out of the way. “Go on, then. But if you spill blood here, you’re dead, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Jon climbed the stairs, feeling their eyes burn holes into his back. Like the rest of the building, the door was covered in graffiti, “NO REENTRY” spray-painted in red at eye level. Dried blood coated the lower half of the door, staining the threshold like a morbid welcome mat. Jon spared them all a glance over his shoulder, nodding tightly.

  “Have a good night, fellas.”

  The pirate grunted and the rest inclined their heads in response. Jon pushed the door open and decided he would kill them last.

  Electronica thumped from somewhere in the building as Jon stepped into a foyer, the smell of mold, fermentation, and decay hitting his senses. Two wide wooden staircases spread before him, one winding to the upper floors and the other leading to the basement. On both the right and left, two sets of double doors stood closed, their metal handles covered with rust. Jon climbed the ascending staircase, the rotted wood creaking beneath his boots as he searched for a threat, his body on high alert.

  The music amplified as he rose to the second level, glass sprinkled all over the diamond plate floor from smashed beer bottles. The layout was identical to the ground level, two double doors on either side of him. Following the pulsing rhythm like a moth to a flame, he reached for the handle on the door closest to him. It gave way easily beneath his grip, leaving behind chips of rust on his palm. A wall of sound rolled over him, reverberating against his bones and rattling his eardrums. Smoke and red light spilled into the stairwell, dim enough to keep him from squinting. He stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind him, and absorbed the scene before him.

  The room was massive, taking up the majority of the building, the ceiling extending all the way to the roof. Sugarcoated beams crisscrossed above like a spider’s web and steel catwalks hovered below them, leading to other areas of the building. Hanging from those catwalks were bodies—human bodies—spaced at regular intervals.

  Like stuck pigs, they’d been hogtied with cables and suspended upside-down, their throats gaping open in macabre smiles. Blood dripped steadily into the steel tubs below them, where the writhing vampires gathered. Piles of machinery and debris were scattered everywhere, rows of corroded metal splitting the area into sections. More tendrils of smoke curled in the air, rising from dozens of burning cigarettes and collecting into a thin cloud near the ceiling.

  The pungent aroma of blood, sweat, and sex tied Jon’s stomach into knots, making him lightheaded. With the rich incense of vampire pheromones pumping in the air, his breath grew shallow and his fangs started to throb. Hunger tore at him, digging holes in his belly, slicing into every artery in his body. He stayed put, balling his gloved hands into fists and closing his eyes.

  Pull yourself together, Jon.

  Without warning, a hand fell on his crotch, clamping around his growing erection. His eyes flew open but she was already on him, smashing her lips against his as her tongue burst into his mouth. He resisted the urge to shove her away, his muscles wire-tight as she pressed against him, her bare breasts molding to his chest.

  The leech was drunk on blood and high as a kite, the tang of cocaine numbing Jon’s lips. He caught her as she leapt up and wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding on him, her skirt riding high. She wasn’t wearing underwear, her arousal invading his senses, and she groaned into his mouth, the sound echoing through him.

  Whoa.

  With one hand gripping her bare ass and the other cupped around the nape of her neck, Jon turned and pushed her up against the door, thrusting his tongue inside her mouth. She growled, clawing at his back, trying to rip off his clothes. He dragged her into a shadowed corner, pinning her between the walls as she licked the backs of his fangs, making him shudder.

  When she broke the kiss, leaving him gasping, she rasped, “Fuck me, baby. Fuck me.”

  Jon grabbed her jaw and wrenched her head to the side, licking a wet line from her collarbone to ear, following her pulse. She trembled as he nipped her earlobe, pressing his lips to the cartilaginous shell. Softly, so softly, he whispered “No,” before he buried his fangs in her throat fast and hard.

  The vampire squealed but he slapped a hand over her mouth, digging his teeth in deeper and gulping down the human blood running in her veins. She fought him as warm iron coated his throat and filled his belly, putting out the fire in his gut. He sucked harder, pleasure rippling through him, as she grew
limp in his arms.

  When she finally stopped struggling, he slid a hand between their bodies, drawing a silver knife from his belt. With one last tug on her jugular, he shoved the blade between her ribs, burying it in her heart.

  She let out an agonal wheeze before he snapped her neck and dropped her on the floor. Bracing himself on the wall with his free hand, he tried to catch his breath as blood dribbled from his lips onto her greasy brunette hair.

  Oh my God.

  Jon’s head roared as power surged within him, filling him to the brim. He turned toward the crowd, bloody blade still in hand, his transgression going unnoticed. Heading straight for the nearest group of leeches, he drew his Glock, its slide already racked and loaded. When the vampires finally looked up from their bathtub orgy, he fired, blowing holes into every one of their brains.

  Then chaos snapped its chain.

  Gunfire exploded in every direction as Jon dove behind a decrepit machine that had once processed sugar into cubes. Bullets pinged off the corroded metal, shards of it raining down on him as he squatted in a puddle of tar-like molasses, sheathing his knife and pulling his second Glock. The leeches scattered, spilling black blood from the tubs, their screams drowning in the beat of the music. From his position, Jon picked off a dozen vamps, many of them unarmed, naked, and hissing like cobras. The “civilians” all went down first, caught in the firefight and crumpling to the floor.

  Jon spotted another metallic contraption across the way, measuring the distance and trying to gauge the number of shooters in the room. He bolted from his position, but his boots were stuck in sugar, giving him a second’s delay. A leech intercepted him before he could make it across the room, slamming into him like a linebacker, his Glocks spiraling away. Jon tumbled across the concrete, sticky with blood and sucrose, his hand falling on top of a metal bar. Cursing, he grabbed hold of it and swung it out in front of him as the vampire fired. Bullets ricocheted off the metal and Jon found himself gripping a giant wrench, red with rust.