“Not yet.” Dax asked Oycher, “Sage?”
“Nothing.” Oycher sensed him, yet he couldn’t shake a weird vibe. But Sage would have to wait. Isla needed out of here, and he wasn’t going to mist her again to leave a molecular breadcrumb trail across the sky. “Is the car ready?”
“Yeah, Flynn is donating his.” He tossed the keys to Oycher. “It’s out front. Hopefully, it smells strong enough of Beta that it’ll cover her.”
Oycher slid the keys in his pocket. “Give him my thanks.” He’d ordered several Vojaks to follow by misting, at a safe distance. They weren’t to draw attention to the vehicle, as Oycher took his family to Miami. However, if the remaining hound and Renaldo attempted to attack again, the Vojaks would be close enough to run interference.
“Flynn doesn’t want your thanks.” Dax’s Alpha-fueled gaze focused on Isla. “He wants her alive and happy, so do I.”
Isla clutched the clothes to her chest, sensing an overload of testosterone. “I’ll slip in the bathroom and change. Thanks again, Alpha.”
“Anytime.”
Terje might keep his mouth closed out of deference to his Alpha, but Oycher held no such allegiance to werewolves. He stepped toe-to-toe with Dax. “Don’t concern yourself with my female’s happiness.”
Dax stayed very still, the way Alphas do when fighting an internal battle with their Beasts. “The only reason she’s leaving with you is because Terje is with her. Otherwise, you would have to go through me. As far as Isladora is concerned, she’s given enough to vampires.”
This was the problem with Alphas, Oycher mused. They were quick to command and often senseless. His Vojak stirred beneath his skin, scenting Alpha blood. He pushed it as far down as he could; however, territory was territory, and his Vojak wouldn’t stand for this Alpha circling his Bride. “She is mine.”
“I don’t see a mark on her throat.”
Terje’s eyes flared and bored into Dax. “Makes no difference.”
Oycher sensed Dax and Terje’s rising Beasts. He placed a firm hand on Terje, willing him to simmer down. For Isla’s sake, Oycher would also stay calm. Or so he hoped. “Alpha, Isla has gone through one hell of night, so we’re keeping this civil. But let’s make one thing clear.” He flashed fang. “You can’t have any part of her, not even her allegiance after I place her under Coven protection.”
“You can’t read my mind.”
Oycher didn’t have to. “Your desire is written on your face.”
“I merely don’t want her hurt by your kind,” Dax said, misting away. “Protect her at all costs.”
Oycher hissed low, clenching his fists and counting in every language he knew, so he wouldn't follow Dax’s bossy ass and gorge on his blood.
“The light.”
He looked at Terje, shaking it off. “What light?”
“Bathroom light’s flickering.” Terje bolted for the door Isla had taken, gripping the doorknob. “Isladora!”
Oycher spun, catching a shimmer of aura.
Terje ripped the door off its hinges, gripping Isladora. “It’s gonna blow!”
Oycher lunged and locked onto Terje’s ankles, flinging him and Isla through a picture window. Terje wrapped his arms tightly around Isla as fire exploded through the corridor. They hit the ground right outside the window, shards of glass and bits of drywall tumbling through the air. Oycher was rolling behind them, all three tumbling away from the building in immortal speed.
Dax was running through the parking lot, shouting orders to clear the area. Oycher slowed and shoved Terje and Isla in a rain-filled retention pond. It was shallow, but enough water stood to cover them.
Immediately, he examined his Bride, his trembling hands skating across her body, missing nothing. Apart from a gash on her forehead, she appeared fine. A red haze covered his vision. That was close. Too damn close. “Say something,” he demanded of her, Isla’s thoughts not reaching him.
She shook her head, pushing him away. “I’m okay. Please…help Terje.” She got up on her elbows, looking over at her male, and sobbed.
Oycher started laving her forehead, pushing his saliva in her wound. Feeding from him would be better, but he sensed this was the prelude to something brewing and he didn’t want to open a vein unless she was dying or in extraordinary pain. He needed everything left in him to go after a male that was probably fifty times his strength, given the amount of immortal blood Renaldo had consumed.
“Stop licking me…and get Terje.”
Burns covered the entire front of Terje’s body, his chest rattling and his breathing rough. But Oycher could hear the strength in his heart and knew he would be okay. However, the Beast needed blood and medical attention that Oycher didn’t have time to give.
He slipped out his phone, even as werewolves were rushing to their aid. “Dru,” Oycher spoke quickly to his Coven’s doctor, a Species vampire with a penchant for putting any creature back together, “on this ping. My mates need you.” After he ended the call, he called in his Vojaks and explained the change in plans. Last call was to Fedor. This was one time the Master Gryph was welcome, since this involved taking down one of his own.
Putting his phone away, he slipped on his fighting gloves and checked to see if any of his blades had been tossed out. Not a one, he was good to go. Terje mumbled something. It didn’t matter that Oycher couldn't understand Terje’s words; he knew their meaning.
He cupped the mangled flesh of Terje’s face. “Look at me.” One eye opened, Terje’s opalescent pupil overpowering the cerulean. Oycher hissed in the way of incensed vampires, furious that his co-mate was enduring such horrific pain. “You saved her. Isla is fine.” He bared his fangs. “No worries. I’ll send that fucker's soul to the devil.”
Smoke was slowly dissipating into the air as Dr. Dru Holt misted in, carrying his medical bag. “I’ve got them, Commander. Do what you have to do.”
Oycher kissed Isladora fiercely. Then he signaled for the Territorial Alpha, who certainly wanted to protect her for himself, so what better bodyguard could Oycher ask for? When Dax walked up to them, Oycher explained, “New plan. I’m hunting down this blood lusting bastard right now.”
Dax nodded. “After I know the miasma is secured, I’ll catch up with you.”
Isla blew Oycher a weak kiss. “I don’t want to think of our last conversation and then you go…”
“Not now,” he shushed her.
She nodded slightly, her eyes skating to Terje’s limp form. “Come back in one piece.”
Oycher inclined his head and misted, bringing his molecules high over Sanibel Island. “Where are you, Renaldo?”
Flynn Ruyter misted in next to him. “Screams heard beneath the pier outside The Blue Pelican.”
He looked at Flynn, understanding this battle divided no werewolves or vampires, but right and wrong. Tonight, they were standing on the right side together. "Let's go."
Passing low over the marsh, Oycher peered between treetops. “Shit!” He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “He bred the damned hounds.”
“He’s only had six fucking months,” Flynn said in disbelief, studying the main drive off the causeway teeming with supernatural dogs.
“Then, Renaldo’s had a serious hand in magic.”
“If my nose is on the money, I’d say they’re halflings bred with large dogs. Pack males are taking them.” Flynn scanned the beachside. “Two Pack males per creature, but they’re going down.”
Terje and Oycher had been strong enough to take the hounds down themselves, but Terje’s capture had slipped through his fingers. Oycher had noted that odd, considering Terje’s Nordic magic, but he hadn’t the time to contemplate. Maybe he should have taken the time. “The hound, the remaining one of the original two,” he theorized, “I think we should consider it indomitable.”
“You seriously think we can’t kill it?”
“Yeah. Capture only.” Unless Volos had a weapon to finalize the hound’s death of which Oycher was unaware. Given Volos commitment to protecting the Dynasty, this was a distinct possibility.
“Just how are we going to contain it?”
“I have no idea.” Oycher spotted his Vojaks diving on the scene, working alongside the werewolves. Up head, the Master Gryph was circling for Renaldo. He pointed to a flaming red corvette sitting in a parking lot. “Commandeer that vehicle, get behind the wheel, and drive like the hounds of hell are chasing you.”
“And what are you going to be doing?”
“Riding shotgun.” Oycher patted his reworked sawed-off hidden beneath his coat. Not only did it house a special silencer made of Habaline ore, but also he could shoot eighteen rounds filled with the same immortal ore before reloading.
It took fifteen seconds for Flynn to drop to the car, work the ignition with his werewolf powers, and land his big boot on the gas pedal. “Left’s where most are heading.” Flynn spun the wheel.
“Then, left it is.” Oycher twisted his big body in the tiny front seat and rolled down the window, salt air filling the car as they accelerated.
“Lighthouse Beach.” Flynn cut a right. “Major action.”
Sitting in the seat reversed, Oycher straddled the back and braced his legs the best he could. The shadows were dotted with citron eyes, moving faster than the car. “Too slow.”
“I’m going to end up hitting humans.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate that as opposed to being eaten to death.” He leveled the shotgun, positioning half his torso out of the window. With a flick of his fingers, he hit the first hound between its eyes. “Bulls-eye.”
Instead of scattering, the other halflings rounded in formation and bounded straight for Oycher. “Hit the gas!”
Flynn slammed the accelerator, the car lunging forward. “I’m flooring it.”
Oycher smacked his shoulder on the door and released half a dozen rounds. Five out of six went down, he would have made the last one if Flynn knew how to drive. But it wasn’t a secret that werewolves struggled with any means of human transportation past motorcycles.
He aimed over the roof, dropping four more. Flynn was right, activity centered Lighthouse Beach, not only on the ground but in the sky. Immortal fire shot across the sky, propelling blue flames. Six more hounds came out of nowhere, one nipping at Oycher’s elbow. He flipped the gun, butting its muzzle. The creature turned tail over head in the road, giving him just enough room to aim and fire.
Taking its place, another positioned itself at Ocher’s arm, its comrades jumping on the car, one on the hood, the other on the roof. Flynn cut a sharp left, spinning the car and flinging oversized dogs. The headlights glared over a blurring three-sixty radius, but Oycher didn’t miss an opportunity. He fired in all directions, precisely hitting seven more hounds.
He gripped the gun, unable to reach inside his coat for more rounds. “I’ll head out.” He misted from the car as Flynn sped away, Oycher solidifying in front of a ma and pa hotel. A dagger whizzed by, and the air went silent.
Oycher looked up just as a winged body crashed straight out of the sky. Another one followed, spiraling down. One was Fedor and he was hoping the other was Renaldo, but it was hard telling them apart when they were going at it in a black blur.
He released his Vojak. With his expanding body, his fangs slid over his chin. His irises bled into the whites. His skin tightened over his lengthening bones. With cheekbones as sharp as blades, his skin hardened into a pearly marble surface, glassy smooth yet stone hard. His claws shot out of his fingertips, nearing four inches each, and a red haze covered his vision.
Kill or be killed was his thought.
Reaching inside his pocket, he pulled out his last six rounds and loaded. These bullets wouldn’t kill Renaldo unless each one hit him clear in the head, but they should slow him down long enough to remove his heart and hack off his head.
The fighting Gryphs movements slowed just enough for Ocher to pick out Fedor’s topaz features and his golden arm bands denoting his status as Volos’ personal Master Gryph. Obviously, Renaldo had also been stripped of these. But it was Renaldo’s arms that brought Fedor out like a little black bird, wringing his neck.
Crack.
Oycher had the gun at the ready, slamming him in the head twice, before Renaldo turned oily, hate-filled eyes on Oycher. A third of his head missing, he brought Fedor’s throat to his mouth. His fangs slid down from his upper gums, going well past his chin. He gave Oycher the business end of his lethal hiss.
He wasn’t stupid. Oycher knew if he made another shot, Renaldo would use Fedor as a shield and waste his four remaining rounds.
Without saying a word, Renaldo yanked Fedor by the hair, snapping back his throat and plunging his fangs deeply. Feeding, he took a step that looked all wrong, his knees and hips moving in a zigzag fashion. Oycher stayed right where he was, his sawed-off in one hand, his other hovering over the hidden sheath housing his favorite blade. Renaldo kept feeding, unable to resist the call of immortal blood long enough to see to Oycher. The creature that was once a Master Gryph released a warning growl much the way werewolves do, yet it sounded strange coming from a vampire. But this was blood lust at its worst.
Oycher glided forward, his hands staying with his weapons. Out of nowhere, two hounds moved forward, one of them being the pureblood. Going with the hunch that he couldn’t kill the last pureblood Hound of Cyn, he nailed the halfling between the eyes with his favorite blade before it took another step near him. The pureblood peeled its lips away from its fangs, opened its mouth on a roar, and charged.
Oycher ended up shooting blindly, his throat releasing an excruciating flare of pain as the hound took him in his mouth like a fledgling. He shook him like a dog with a new toy, Oycher’s arms and legs flaying madly in all directions. But he didn’t drop his weapon. He managed to hurl a blinding blow on the hound, hitting his flank with a resounding thwack. Broken ribs wouldn’t slow him down, but, at least, the bastard released Oycher’s throat.
Renaldo dismissed the dog with a flick of fingers. It disappeared into the night. “I’m still thirsty.” His eyes flashed as he smiled, the moonlight striking his bloodied fangs.
“Not your feeder.” Oycher already had blades in each hand. He kicked out as Renaldo extended his wings and knocked the Gryph backwards.