Black Bullet (The Order of the Senary) Page 3

  Without hesitation, he launched at the vampire with the wrench in full swing. The leech dodged it as Jon flipped it around like a baton, bullets snapping firecracker-fast into metal. Finding an opening, Jon drove the butt of the wrench into the leech’s gut, and the vampire grunted, doubling over and dropping his gun. Whipping the wrench around, Jon smashed the metal jaws against the leech’s head, taking off half his face.

  Blood sprayed everywhere as Jon seized the vampire and used him as a shield, tossing the wrench and scooping up the fallen gun. Bullets riddled the leech’s body while Jon finished his sprint to a pile of steel and conveyors, dropping the vamp as he took shelter. He lifted the .45 high, aiming at the catwalk where two of the Temhota fired down on him. With three shots, he took them both out, their bodies flipping over the rails as one landed in a tub and the other hit the floor.

  The hammering pulse of an assault rifle suddenly tore into the room, the music dying with a high-pitched squeak as leeches dropped like flies. The source came from above, and Jon looked to the smoke-covered beams to see a rapid-fire muzzle flash as the shooter dashed across one of the catwalks. Confusion struck him momentarily, but he didn’t have time to mull it over as a leech leapt over his shelter and landed in front of him.

  Jon raised the gun, but the vamp was fast, kicking it out of his hand before he could get a shot off. Jon swept the leech’s feet out from under him, yanking a new blade from his belt as he sprang up. The vampire levered to his feet at the same time, dagger already in hand, but Jon’s chance to cut him vanished when the leech’s head erupted in an explosion of gore.

  The rifle shooter was back, covering the room in slugs, and Jon wasn’t about to stick around to find out who he was. He ran for the door, dropping to a slide as he scooped up his Glocks and flipped to his feet without slowing down. Two-thirds of the way across the room, a bullet clipped him in the leg, blowing out his thigh right above the knee.

  Jon yelped and stumbled, pain ripping him as he crashed into the door, knocking it open. With his entire leg on fire, he scrambled down the stairs, struggling to maintain his balance. He ended up falling until the building finally spat him out onto the street. Trying to keep upright, he limped like a wounded animal, poison spreading through his veins.

  Silver. Fuck, he’d been hit with silver.

  A hand latched onto his shirt and yanked him back. Jon fell, the air whooshing out of his lungs as his spine hit the asphalt, his head following suit. White stars burst before his eyes like fireworks and he struggled to blink them away. When the lights finally cleared, he stared down the barrels of three guns, the pirate and his crew surrounding him.

  “Well, look what we have here.” The pirate leaned in, baring his yellowed fangs as he smiled his ugly fucking smile. “Ramsden’s pretty little boy.”

  The vamps snickered as they each took aim at one of Jon’s vital organs. “Say goodbye, fella—”

  One minute they were there, the next they weren’t, all three leeches going down without a single shot fired. Their muffled grunts and the wet rip of flesh carried in the wind before the splatter of blood ended the morbid symphony on a final sweet note.

  Jon only had time to take a single breath before a dark boot materialized in front of his face, the heel aiming straight for his throat. He snatched it before it made contact and twisted hard, thrusting it away from him. The limb yielded beneath his grip as his attacker collapsed beside him, metal clattering nearby. He levered to his feet, pulling a KA-BAR from his boot as pain lit up his nerves, setting his teeth on edge. His attacker was already standing, the blade of a gorgeous double-edged Kris sword pointed at his throat.

  Holy shit.

  His opponent was female, wearing a slim-fitting black battle uniform and carrying enough artillery to outfit a small army. Her jet-black hair was tied in a long braid and a black mask covered the lower half of her face. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes revealed her Asian heritage, her skin the color of caramel. A scabbard stretched across her back, strapped to her chest, along with the M16 she’d used to tear up the warehouse.

  Jon took a step back, but she didn’t hesitate, launching at him with the blade. Metal clashed and sparks flew as he parried the long sword’s quicksilver arcs with his dagger. Although she limped from her injured leg, her strikes were hard, fast, and precise, each blow intended to kill. He nearly tripped over the pirate’s body as she backed him against the wall of the refinery, and he ducked as the blade screeched along the brick.

  Before Jon straightened, he jabbed the butt of his KA-BAR into her knee and she yelped, stumbling backward. He slashed at her and caught nothing but air as she lurched away from him. She swung the Kris at his head and he raised the KA-BAR to engage and bind the sword. Both of their weapons trembled as their eyes locked on one another across the tangle of deadly metal.

  And as her smoldering gaze drilled into him, he smelled it.

  Dama de Noche.

  The Lady of the Night, a nocturnal blooming flower he’d first smelled years ago in Nepal, when he was a human soldier. The scent was unmistakable, underlying the incense of vampire. The stench of leech didn’t belong to her, but the floral aroma was all her own.

  She’s not a vampire.

  Stunned by the revelation, Jon wavered, and she quickly took advantage of him. She sidestepped and lunged, sinking the blade in his shoulder. He shouted, dropping his KA-BAR as pain erupted from his dominant limb. Moving lightning fast, she yanked the blade out and sliced an arc across his chest. Luckily, she only scored his Kevlar, and as the sword swooped around again, Jon caught it with his gloved hands, silver biting into leather.

  “You’re a hybrid,” he ground out. “I’m on your side!”

  She pushed hard against him, drawing blood. “Bullshit.” Her voice was a rich contralto, edged with a growl. “You reek of Temhota.”

  The Dama drew back and chopped at his belly, but Jon blocked her with his forearms, metal jarring against his bones. Finally, he managed to kick the blade out of her grip and it spun away, clattering to the ground. She somersaulted backward to retrieve it, but Jon caught hold of her braid in mid-air and wrenched on it. She cried out and landed face-first on the pavement, breath audibly whooshing from her throat.

  Jon wound her braid around his hand like a rope and straddled her, pinning her down. He tore the M16 off and tossed it as she writhed beneath him, fighting hard. Yanking her head up, he leaned close to her ear. “I’m not your enemy,” he hissed.

  Her already shallow breath quickened and her struggles intensified, her sweet scent pumping from her pores in cloying waves. Panic. Fear.

  Restraining her like this completely terrified her.

  Jon let up, knowing it was a mistake, but the shred of humanity still left in him couldn’t resist. The Dama slammed the crown of her head into his face and his retinas exploded in a staggering palette of reds, whites, and grays. His nose caved in, but not so far as to bury the bony shards into his brain. Blood poured out of him like a leaky faucet as he fell back, propping himself up on the wall of the refinery.

  She was on him in an instant, chopping the edge of a flat hand into his trachea before smashing a fist in his ear. She wobbled to her feet as he struggled desperately to breathe—remember Jon, you don’t have to—and she gave him a vicious kick to his solar plexus, doubling him over. The pain was terrific, a cacophony of agony echoing from every corner of his body.

  Jesus Christ, she was beating the shit out of him.

  The Dama stood there, shaking, the fabric of her fallen mask fluttering to the ground. Jon blinked, trying to clear his blurred vision as she picked up her sword. He stole a glimpse of her face an instant before she flung the mask up with the blade and caught it. A tattoo marked her cheek, the black symbol unmistakable but jagged, as if she’d thrashed during the process.

  The same mark he’d painted on his chest la
y branded on her face—the emblem of the Temhota.

  Jon yanked down the neckline of his shirt, much like he had with the pirate, but this time he wiped at the mark, smearing it. The Dama paused in front of him, eyes narrowed, a gash marring her forehead. Even with the mark of his enemy on her face, she was breathtaking, and he didn’t have much breath left to spare.

  “Not real,” he said past swollen lips, lifting trembling fingers stained with both paint and blood. “No mark.”

  “But you are a leech.” She pointed the serpentine blade at the hollow of his throat.

  He nodded, swallowing iron. “I work with the Senary. I used to . . . I used to be human. I’m not what you think I am.”

  “You stink of them.” Her lip curled in a snarl.

  He nodded again, every muscle in his body screaming. “Because I’m one of them. Yet I’m not.”

  Brilliant. Maybe a few of those bony shards made their way into his brain after all.

  She flipped the sword deftly and held it in a two-handed grip, the sin qua non of impending decapitation. Her dark eyes didn’t have the cat-like gleam signature to vampires, but hate and anger bled through them anyway.

  “Makes no difference to me.”

  As if on cue, blinding headlights filled the alleyway as the roar of an engine battered Jon’s eardrums. The Camaro didn’t let up for a second as it raced toward her at full speed. Jon tucked his legs in and rolled out of the way as the Dama jumped onto the hood of the black car, stomped across the windshield, and sprang off the trunk.

  The Camaro skidded to a halt beside Jon as she scooped up her M16 and kept on running, tossing one last glare over her shoulder before she disappeared into the night.

  Rome climbed out of the car, Beretta in hand, watching her go. His pace was unhurried as he circled the Camaro and leaned against the wheel in front of Jon, slipping the Beretta back into his shoulder holster. Like Jon, he was fully geared up, but unlike Jon, he didn’t look like roadkill.

  “Roadkill is right,” he said, not even trying to hide the humor in his voice.

  Jon managed to sit up, wincing. Blood continued to drip from his nose and his head bellowed in agony. Goddamn it, she’d punched him in the ear. “I don’t need your help.”

  Rome raised a brow. “Oh really? She would’ve cut your head off.”

  “Maybe she should’ve.”

  The hybrid frowned, sobering as he pushed off the car and offered Jon a hand. “Is there anything left in the building?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Good.” Rome stood there for a moment, hand extended as Jon struggled to get up on his own, failing miserably. “C’mon, Jon. Don’t be an asshole.”

  Jon got to his knees and his bullet-blown leg made itself known. He gritted his teeth as he pitched forward, landing on his slashed forearms.

  “You stubborn shit.” Rome grabbed the back of Jon’s collar and dragged him to his feet, throwing Jon’s arm over his shoulder. Pain sizzled Jon’s every nerve and he yelped.

  “You motherfucker,” he hissed, but he leaned on Rome anyway. No way would he have stood on his own, not with all the silver polluting his already contaminated blood.

  “Get in the car,” Rome grumbled, but his movements softened as he helped Jon into the backseat. Curling up, unable to find a comfortable position, he just lay where he landed.

  Rome backed the Camaro out of the alley; every pothole rattled Jon’s bones. Closing his eyes, he let exhaustion take hold once they finally hit smooth road. He’d tell Rome about the Dama later. For now he barely had the energy to stay awake, never mind speak, and when oblivion plunged him into sweet darkness, he couldn’t deny its grip.

  With the Dama’s floral scent in his brain, Jon slept like the dead.

  THREE

  If there was one thing in the world that could drive him absolutely mad, it was a screaming baby.

  Regin Ramsden burst into the nursery, covered in blood. Pounding rock music poured into the room and the baby’s shrieks intensified. A nightlight illuminated the opposite corner of the crib, the pale glow flickering as Regin approached slowly, tracking crimson boot prints over the pink carpet. The baby cried and twitched helplessly, her face red and hot with blood. Regin leaned on the rail, studying the infant as he picked up the pacifier near her head.

  Hush little baby, don’t say a word.

  She abruptly stopped crying and looked up at him, her big beautiful eyes that hazy blue babies had before their true color developed. Regin pushed the pacifier into her mouth and she suckled it gently, settling down. He smiled, revealing his bloodstained fangs, and she cooed back at him, still staring as if she were trying to figure out who he was.

  Papa’s going to buy you a mockingbird.

  Regin wiped away her tears with his soiled hands, sullying her onesie. Her hair was a fine blond, curling at the ends, never cut. Her soft, fragile skin smelled exquisitely sweet, making his mouth water.

  If that mockingbird don’t sing—

  Between the riffs of guitars and crashing drums, her father let out a ragged shout, awake again after having passed out from his rendezvous with Regin’s men. Too bad his wife hadn’t lasted very long, but he refused to give up, as if he had something else to live for.

  And, how about that? He did.

  Papa’s going to buy you a diamond ring.

  Regin lifted the babe in his arms, careful to support her head. She nestled into the crook of his shoulder as he collected her pink blanket and wrapped it around her. Rocking her gently, he headed back into the chaos of the living room.

  If that diamond ring turns brass—

  Hogtied to a chair with extension cords and his own tungsten carbide handcuffs, the current Lieutenant of NYPD’s 75th precinct had been beaten half to death, his throat ravaged and his body ruined. Regin’s men had hauled his wife’s carcass into the bedroom since the pig broke into hysterics every time he looked at her. Now the officer hung his head, sobbing in defeat, shaking with anguish.

  Maybe Regin should just kill his beloved, wait until she turned, and watch her tear her husband apart.

  Now that would be quite a show.

  Papa’s going to buy you a looking glass.

  When the LT saw his baby girl, he went nuts. With his dark eyes bulging to show the whites, he released a bellowing wail, struggling against his bindings with renewed energy, doing everything in his power to break free.

  The two vampires hovering over the coffee table nearby looked up from their meth-snorting session, ignoring the cop as if he wasn’t even in the room. Wiping their powdered nostrils, they snickered at the sight of Regin and the baby, finally glancing over at the LT in amusement.

  “Cut the music,” Regin ordered and one of them pulled the plug, turning up the volume on the pig’s desperate pleas.

  Regin raised the baby, facing her father, her pink blanket fluttering to the floor. She kept stirring, dropping her pacifier, trying to turn back toward Regin now that he had her undeveloped mind under his control.

  “Hey, Daddy.” Regin lilted the words, lips curving. “Look what I found.”

  “No, please! God, no,” the LT shouted, burbling with snot and tears. “I’ll do anything you want, anything you want, just please don’t hurt her!”

  Regin brought the baby closer. “Anything I want?”

  “Yes, God! Please!”

  “I want you to choose.” Regin indicated the bedroom. “Your wife.” He swayed the baby in his hands. “Or your daughter.”

  Devastation filled the cop’s swollen eyes as wracking sobs shook him again. “Please, don’t do this, I can’t—”

  “Pick one.” Regin released his mental grip on the baby and she started to cry.

  The pig sobbed harder. He should’ve thought twice about hunting a Ramsden.


  “I can’t—”

  “So it’s your wife?” Regin cocked a brow.

  “No!”

  “Then it’s your baby.”

  “No, please!”

  Irritation pricked Regin’s skin, anger flaring beneath it. He was ready to snap the human’s neck purely out of spite. “Do you want me to pick for you?”

  The Lieutenant dropped his head, quaking with grief. Regin tucked the baby back against his shoulder and she quieted down as he knelt in front of her father. “Daddy, look at me.”

  It took some effort but the cop leveled his bleary eyes on Regin.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. See these gentlemen right here?” Regin motioned to the tweakers. “They’re going to feast on your wife and kill her when they’re finished. Then you’ll be next. As for your baby girl, let’s just say she’s going to deliver a nasty little message to the New York Police Department. Then maybe your friends will finally learn that Brooklyn is mine.” Regin bared his fangs. “Brooklyn belongs to me.”

  He stood with the baby while her father renewed his struggles, shouting and begging and crying. The tweakers also rose to their feet, snickering and heading for the bedroom, only adding to the pig’s horror. Regin strolled back into the nursery and lifted the babe high in the air, gazing up at her and smiling. She cooed and jerked in his hands as she smiled back.

  Maybe he should keep her. Make her his own personal slave like others had done to him. Turn her when she ripened into a woman and take her as his mistress. Bind her to him for eternity and make her heel on demand.