The Lord of Near and Nigh: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 2) (44 page)

Fear? Sadness?
 

But I’m too distracted to think much of it.
 

“Of course, yes,” Tamara says. She almost releases me from her embrace, but at the last minute she says, “This…child of ours, Rodas. I want you to know he will always live free. Our child will never know a cage. I promise you that. Understand?”

“Of course. Our child will rule one day,” I say. “He is my heir.”

Tamara nods. “Yes. Our son is your heir. And he
will
rule.”
 

Something in how she speaks makes my animal hiss and spit. The Night Stalker is on edge. Uncertain. Much has changed.
 

Tamara gestures to the door and says, “Shall I enter our chamber first, my Lord of Near and Nigh?”

“Of course not,” I say, dropping my claws and stepping toward the door.
 

“I didn’t think so,” Tamara whispers. “You were always too proud, Rodas my love. Too proud…and far too trusting.”
 

Something in her voice.
 

A sneering, hateful edge, finely masked and now revealed, makes me whirl.

Too late.

The blade clutched in Tamara’s hand glitters smokey black, matching my bloodmate’s murderous eyes as she betrays me.

“Mictlantecuhtli take you!” Tamara screams as the obsidian blade descends.

Lord of Mictlan. The Night Drinker. Javier the Broken.

“No—” I shriek, trying to transform into the black smoke, but I’ve left my mirror amulet on the stone altar beside Carlos Collazo.
 

The night smoke eludes me.

Tamara’s obsidian blade pierces my chest and drives through my ribcage and then I’m airborne, falling through the triangular trapdoor into the heart of the stone pyramid, my bloodmate’s treacherous blade buried deep and as I fall I look up and see my bloodmate, her lioness freed, standing over the trapdoor, cradling her belly, her eyes misted with tears but her jaw set tight in determination, and there’s that fucking wretch standing beside her, Carlos Collazo, a leering jackal-grin splitting his face and then I flip backwards, spinning in darkness—

“I warned you, you fucking
fool
,” Tamara calls out after me. “I said you would be used and discarded—”

Carlos Collazo bursts into sharp, brutal laughter.

I close my eyes.
 

The fall feels endless.
 

The pain from the blade burning in my chest is worse than any I’ve ever imagined, but it’s still more bearable than seeing my bloodmate’s eyes as she betrayed me and knowing, finally, that I am not a god reborn but a reckless, foolish child—

O Night Wind I have forsaken you.

O brother I am lost to you.
 

You sought and this waste did not answer. You summoned and this waste did not appear. I am stillborn. I am excrement. I shall not be raised. I shall not govern. I offer myself to you, O Lord O Lord of Near and Nigh O Possessor of Earth and Sky—

S
O
THIS
IS
how it feels to be on the ass end of a very bad decision.

I might be a shitty pack leader, but I know one thing: when a lying Stricken motherfucker like Mr. Connor Whatever sets a trap for you, you don’t stick around to see if his
intentions
are true.

You put a bullet in him, saw off his fucking head, feed on his black heart and hit the road smiling.

Instead we’re walking into the douchebag’s manicured backyard like it’s a fucking summer pool party. The stars are out, and the ugly Blood Moon, which makes sense for my life right now.
 

I grip the M16 and give my head a shake.
 

It’s tempting to look at the night sky and try to make it mean something for our lives. Like we’re special or some shit. But the stars don’t give a fuck about us. They’re gunna shine whether we’re here to get all sentimental about them…or not.

Connor’s backyard slopes down to a stone patio ringed by a white railing, and from there it looks like about a fifty foot drop into the ocean below. The air smells of the rain that stopped only an hour ago, and, much more faint, of smoke.
 

Out there a city’s tearing itself to pieces.
 

And right here, my bloodmate Lily’s doing the same to herself.
 

I guess life’s not about anything besides trying to decide what the fuck it’s about.
 

Trying to make sense of shit. Find a code in secret symbols. Invent one if you have to.
 

Maybe you’re wrong, maybe you’re right.
 

Doesn’t matter.
 

Because by the time you’re certain of things…you’re fucking dead.
 

My story didn’t make sense for Lily. Purebloods and Stricken battling one another for eternity. Good versus evil. Righteous versus wicked. She wasn’t buying. She chose to believe Connor’s story.
 

Something in it made sense to her.

Trouble for her is, buying Connor’s version puts her at odds with me.
 

Her bloodmate. The animal she marked for life.
 

Well, I guess we’ll see about that. You change what someone believes in you change everything about them. Their foundation. What they want. Who they’re loyal to. Even who they’re capable of loving. Connor might be a prick, but he’s no idiot. While I was pissing around killing Stricken and fucking Lily, thinking what we have is real, he was working on making Lily believe his story.
 

Working on making her his.
 

“He fucking dies,” I say to Tate as the chopper shines a spotlight on us and the wind roars down. “No matter what, that Stricken motherfucker Connor dies tonight. Lets keep this real simple. Got it?”

“I want the snooty bitch sister,” Tate says.

“Fuck if I care. Take her. Bitches are more trouble than they’re worth.”

Tate grins. “Hit a speed bump on the road of marital bliss?”

“Piss off.”

We’re gathered in the grass as the chopper descends. I got the M16 raised like I’m aiming at the chopper. But I’m really sighting down Connor’s pretty-boy face.
 

There’s something creepy about the chopper, the lights and the sound and the wind rising around us, like we’re humbled faithful kneeling as an angel descends from the heavens to offer salvation during the end of days.

But if there’s an angel in that chopper my name is mud.

I try and bring my animal close.
 

Invite him on out.

C’mere, doggy. Come out and play.
 

He’s been going mad with the scent of Stricken.
 

Time to get my fucking kill on.

But something’s wrong. Very wrong.
 

Then I realize…I can’t feel him. My animal.
Me
. Motherfucker should be pacing his cage in a high-strung ball of murderous energy, snarling and howling for a kill, wondering why the fuck I’m standing beside Stricken instead of feeding on them.

But he isn’t.
 

He’s gone.
 

I try and drop fang. Nothing. Not even a ripple.

The chopper hovers a couple feet off the ground.
 

The door slides open.

What is horror?
 

It’s not ugliness. Not a creature rippling under human skin.
 

It’s being powerless.

Horror, in my case, is a tall, sinewy grey-haired old guy hopping from the helicopter with a sharp-toothed grin wide enough to swallow Texas. This must be August Lerrick.
 

Horror is looking inside and feeling nothing at all, and right about then I’m feeling like maybe the prick Connor wasn’t feeding us lies.

Maybe his father is—
 

“Uh, Prez?” Tate says, staring at me in wide-eyed terror.

They’re gone. All our animals. Poof.
 

Connor, standing at the front of our fucked-up little gathering, turns and shoots me the smarmiest I-told-you-so glare possible, then shouts over the roar of the helicopter, “So how’s it feel, Prez? Being a Skin?”

Lily looks at me nervously. Her creature’s vanished as well, and I have to wonder: does it feel so great now, Lil? Is it everything you wanted, being free of her?
 

Cuz the look on Lily’s face is saying no, it ain’t all that.
 

“I can’t do it, Prez,” Tate says. “Not like this. Not without him.”

Chickenshit.
 

“Hold your fucking ground,” I say while the lanky old guy takes his sweet time walking across the lawn toward his son. He’s wearing the same kind of impeccably tailored suit as Connor. Has the look of a man who’s accustomed to having his every word obeyed. His close cropped silver-grey hair shines in the chopper’s spotlight, and his eyes are a sharp, crystal blue. He flicks his wrist. The chopper’s engine switches off and the blades begin to slow.
 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Tate stammers. “The First Fallen?”

“Fuck if I know,” I snarl. “Remember what I said. Connor Lerrick’s fucking heart in my hands. Keep your eyes on the prize, rasta.”

“I’m not a rasta,” Tate says, as if it’s something he’s been meaning to say for a while. “Rasta is a religion. I just dig dreadlocks and dope.”

“Oh. Thanks for clearing that up.”

The old guy…August? He’s about ten steps from his son. He’s dropping fang, though only a little.
 

So that’s the motherfucker’s game.

He can summon his animal, but no one in his presence can.
 

That must be real handy.
 

Now we’ll see what kind of trap Connor laid for us. I figure: father and son are gunna shake hands, turn to face us, father’s gunna flick his wrist again, and an anti-tank gun’s gunna blaze from within the shadows of that chopper, sawing us weak-ass Skin motherfuckers in half.
 

End of story. Clap, clap.

But that’s not what happens.
 

August gets to within a few steps of Connor, leaps forward and brings his fist up in an uppercut that connects so hard with Connor’s chin it sends him sailing backward.

Star puts her hands to her chest and shrieks.
 

Huh.
 

It’s a full-on white-trash domestic.
 

Shit’s getting weird on the posh side of town.
 

I finger the M16, not sure which generation I should shoot first.
 

Can’t say I don’t like seeing Connor get laid out, and what it means for him and his version of events, well, that doesn’t much matter, because August’s shoulders are bulking up and his crystal-clear fangs are dropping and I tell you what: gutting the six pathetic Skins he has in front of him’s going to be easier than a morning piss.

So much for the son murdering the father. Nice try, kiddo.
 

Guess the old guy’s not quite ready for a gold watch and a pair of Depends.
 

“You insolent, ungrateful
upstart
,” August Lerrick says while Connor shakes his head and tries to stand. “You lying, scheming, unfaithful little rogue.”

Rogue
?
 

Old dude needs to download Shit-talk: Twenty-first Century.

“Daddy enough!” Star screams, running at the old guy, wrapping herself around his arm and going all limp.
 

August scowls and flings his daughter to the ground.
 

She lands in a heap, sobbing, and the old dude turns to face us.

Lily staggers backward, clutching her elbows like she’s suddenly cold, whispering something I can’t hear.
 

“Oh, you’re a class act,” Trish says, raising her Glock at the old guy. “Touch her again and I blow those hair plugs out your geriatric head.”

August smiles, lifts his hands, drops his claws an inch longer.

“Yeah, I’ve seen that shit,” Trish says, squeezing the trigger. “You need to do better.”

The Glock kicks back, one-two-three, and the old guy steps lightly to the side.
 

Fucking hell. Sidestepping bullets?
 

Fucker’s got moves.
 

Trish fires again. Misses…and then August is right in front of her, hand upturned. He raises his hand, slowly, like he’s a preacher in a pulpit channeling the Almighty, and his claws puncture deep into Trish’s belly. There’s a whoosh of breath escaping Trish’s lungs and then August’s lifting the Skin girl into the air, impaled on his hand.
 

Trish drops the Glock.
 

Red blood pours down August’s forearm, drips off his elbow.
 

“You’re soiling my loafers, Skin” August says without a hint of emotion. Trish scratches and smacks at August’s face, then grips his wrist with both hands as blood leaks from her lips and nose.

“You…
freak
…” Trish gasps, spitting pink froth.
 

The chopper’s spotlight silhouettes their joined figures, making them both glow as Trish meets whatever creator is insane enough to sign-off on this sack-of-shit world.

August flings Trish to the side like he’s tossing a piece of garbage.
 

Which he is.

“You fucking asshole!” Lily shrieks, running at him.

“Lily, no!” I cry, dropping the M16 and racing to snatch her away from August before she slams into him. I wrap an arm around her waist. She thrashes and struggles against me, and I’m fucking glad her animal’s gone.

August raises an eyebrow. “Has the idiot wolf suddenly wizened? Welcome, Aaron of the Mountain River. It’s been a long, long while.”

“Trish,” Lily mumbles. “Oh god no. Trish!”

“She can’t hear you,” I say in the most calming voice I can muster. “She’s gone, Lil.”