Blood Cure Read online

  Leo straightened the lapels of his suit, as though all of a sudden they became wrinkled. “Two centuries have taught me to be a very patient man”—he glanced down at his solid gold Rolex—“but alas, I have a prior engagement. We will have to resume this another time.”

  I started to tell him not to bother, that the answer would still be the same, but he no longer stood there. I glanced around, but didn’t see him. “Mr. Trevelyan?” A car door slammed shut outside. Wow, I didn’t even see him move.

  The clock on the wall in the office, which had a different car for every hour, revved its fake Mustang engine, breaking the eerie silence. Crap! Ten o’clock. Stupid vampire! I swear if I see him again, there better not be a piece of wood handy.

  I slapped the light switch and slammed the door shut behind me, rushing out into the cool July night.

  CHAPTER 2

  The parking lot at the Blu Moon was so packed we had to circle around twice before finding a spot big enough for Sally’s Eclipse to squeeze into. We always drove Sally’s car when we went out. She said it was because Old Red—the ’66 Chevy Father gave me—was uncomfortable, but personally, I thought it was because she received more attention in the little silver convertible.

  Sally checked her make-up in the visor and reapplied her Work It! lipstick for the second time. Her red lips now competed with her crimson hair.

  She smacked her lips together to even out the lipstick and I groaned. She glanced at me, her long lashes fanning her cheeks. “What?” she asked innocently.

  “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “You look beautiful as always. Can we go now?” I considered her my sister, but sometimes I couldn’t help the spark of jealousy. Her perfect makeup and hair drove the guys crazy. With my long black hair and penchant for not wearing cosmetics, I felt bland in comparison.

  She puckered her ruby lips and blew me a kiss. “Thanks. You look great, too.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come on,” I said, opening the door.

  We climbed out into the cool night air. I opted not to bring my light jacket in favor of keeping warm on the dance floor. Sally smoothed her black leather skirt, making sure she didn’t flash anyone by accident, and shivered from the briskness of the air. She opted out of her leather jacket as well, preferring to show off her cream-colored skin. Her father’s infidelity gave her unusual skin tone and hair for a member of our tribe, but Sally made it work.

  I grinned. She always made an impression anytime we went out, from her black leather bustier, laced up the back and tied so tight it gave her enough cleavage to make even Dolly Parton look twice, to her short leather skirt I told her bordered on indecent, down to her black heeled boots buckled all the way up past her knees. Top it all off with the red hair and lips, she would have fit right in to the BDSM scene.

  I dressed a little more conservative. Instead of a black leather skirt, which I don’t own, I wore pants that fit my athletic physique like a glove. My lace-up boots were the same ones I wore every day, practical and easy to move in, perfect for dancing. The top, also a bustier, buckled down the front with stainless steel rings and fasteners, and stopped right below my breasts, which were nowhere near as impressive as Sally’s.

  We maneuvered our way around parked cars toward the flashing neon sign of the Blu Moon that beckoned customers from miles around. We tried not to get run over by others making the same loop we had in search of a parking spot.

  We took our positions in line behind dozens of others clamoring to get in. After a few minutes, a low whistle cut through the din of noise as I people-watched. “Nice ink, babe,” a gruff voice said from behind us. It sounded strange, a mix of English and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. As we turned to see who said it, I understood why.

  Three people back from where we stood, a werewolf—in half-were form—stared at me with eyes the color of whiskey. His elongated mouth formed the beginnings of a snout filled with sharp canines, causing his words to sound slightly gruff and growlish. Though more or less still human, his wolf peered out at the world.

  The werewolf wore skintight black jeans with holes in the knees, a pair of black cowboy boots, and nothing else. His reddish brown fur—which must have been stunning in full wolf form—covered every inch of exposed skin, and rippled in the light breeze. Mr. Wolfman had a kind of James Dean meets Teen Wolf thing going on—handsome in a strange sort of way.

  He watched as I evaluated his appearance and grinned, showing off a mouth full of sharp white teeth.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, trying to regain myself.

  He pointed a long, clawed finger at my abdomen and said, “Your tattoo, nice work. How long did it take?” Several of the people standing close enough to hear our conversation stared at me as well.

  I glanced down at the tattoo in question. Rya, my puma tattoo, my Spirit Warrior. Her sleek puma body clawed its way up my entire right side with her head and right paw visible across my belly, and her left paw showed on my shoulder where the bustier didn’t cover. The tattoo was so detailed it looked like you could stroke her fur and feel the strands between your fingers.

  Raging Buffalo, the tribe’s powerful old healer, gave her to me on the night of my birth when he sacrificed himself to save me. When he died, instead of Rya returning to the Great Spirit—a tradition among our people—she passed to me, but I’d only ever known her as the lifelike tattoo that adorned my right side.

  Suddenly, an old ache blossomed in my chest. Mother and I both died that night, but for whatever reason, Raging Buffalo chose to save me. He used his magic to thrust his spirit into my tiny stillborn body, breathing life into me. I’d spent most of my life wishing he’d saved my mother instead, or let me pass to the Great Beyond with her.

  My already sore ribs protested when Sally elbowed me, bringing me back to the present.

  “I don’t know how long she took,” I answered. The old pain in my chest continued to burn, but I’d become well versed at ignoring it over the years.

  “Were you that drunk?” The werewolf snickered, amusement dancing in his glowing eyes. Several of the others joined in his mockery.

  Shaking my head, I said, “No. I don’t know because I’ve had the tattoo since I was a baby.”

  The curious crowd around us uttered exclamations and remarks of disbelief.

  I couldn’t think of an answer they would understand so I shrugged and said, “It’s the magic of my people.”

  The werewolf’s jocularity faded, replaced by an intense seriousness, as if he understood what I meant.

  Considering the fact he stood there, looking like something out of a 1950s horror movie, perhaps he did. He stared at me for a few moments longer, then nodded and went back to his conversation with his companion. The line started moving again, so I turned around to face the front as the onlookers dispersed back to their places in line.

  “Well, that was fun,” Sally said. She glanced over her shoulder at the werewolf before adding wistfully, “Maybe I should get a tattoo.”

  I turned her back around to face forward and stepped up in line. “Yeah, because you don’t get enough attention as it is.” I huffed. She already had so many men beating down her door, she could bring a different guy to the club each Friday for a year and never have to be seen with the same guy twice. Or at least, that’s how it seemed.

  “You’re just jealous,” she teased, throwing her hair over her shoulder.

  “Damn right, I’m jealous. I’ve got sixty-year-old men coming into the shop that get more action than I do.” Sally and I both laughed.

  After twenty minutes of bantering back and forth with Sally, we reached the front of the line where I recognized the bouncer. “Hey, George, how’s furry life treating you?”

  George was a werewolf, but unlike his counterpart behind us, he always stayed in human form. Tonight his charm, a wolf paw that signified what he was, hung from a piece of metal twisted to resemble a tribal tattoo on his upper left bicep. His tall, muscular body and blond hair always re
minded me of Fabio for some reason. A muscle-bound, scary movie version of Fabio, but still.

  “Loving every minute of it, babe.” His bright blue eyes swept over us from head to toe, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “You ladies look mighty fine tonight. The two of you keep dressing like that and I might have to break the ‘No Biting’ rule myself.”

  George grabbed each of our hands and kissed them in old world style, bending at the waist and planting a kiss on the back of each, his lips warm and soft. I shivered. He felt my reaction and rewarded me with a devilish grin, hinting of other things he’d like to do with his lips. Before we could get into trouble, he opened the large steel door and ushered us inside.

  The noise always hit me as soon as I stepped through the door at the Blu Moon. They built the club, known for its live bands on the weekends, outside the city limits with several square blocks left undeveloped around it. A human neighborhood in the heart of the city would never have tolerated it. I asked once how the supernaturals could stand it with their exceptional hearing, and the vampire I danced with said they could turn down the volume on their hearing. Lucky them.

  The noise never seemed to bother Sally. She stepped around me as though my eardrums were the only ones about to burst, and led the way across the room toward the bar where we always loosened ourselves up with a few drinks before hitting the dance floor. I smoothed down my bustier while trying to adjust to the loud thumping assaulting my ears, then chased after her.

  Different shades of blue covered everything in the interior of the Blu Moon, hence the name, but the centerpiece of the club was a neon moon the size of a VW Beetle that hung from the forty-foot ceiling over the center of the wooden dance floor. Holes cut out of the ceiling in the shape of stars allowed black lights hidden in the rafters to shine through.

  The moon and stars lit up the stage, bringing my attention to tonight’s theme band. The Flesh Eaters, according to the name emblazoned on their drum set at the back of the stage, had spared no expense in making themselves look like zombies. Real zombies didn’t exist. A young girl dancing up close to the stage must have gotten a pretty good look because she suddenly covered her mouth and took off running through the crowd. I shook my head as I reached the bar and Sally.

  “What do you think of the band?” she asked as I sat down on the glow-in-the-dark bar stool shaped like a full moon.

  I shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess, but I liked some of the other bands better.”

  She tapped her fingers on the bar, mimicking the rhythm of the beat as she replied, “Yeah, but they’re not bad.”

  The bartender, Matt, made his way over to take our orders. Average looking, clean cut, reddish-orange hair, he had the cutest dimples I ever saw on a man.

  “Hey, girls, wh…what’ll it be tonight?” He busied himself wiping the massive wooden bar top—already so clean, you could eat off of it—and periodically cut glances at Sally, then away.

  “I’ll have a Tom Collins,” Sally answered. She flashed him one of her heart-stopping smiles and leaned her chest against the bar. Matt’s rag smacked into one of the glasses stacked nearby. He grabbed the wayward glass and slid it back into place, muttering apologies as his cheeks turned the same color as his hair.

  I decided to save him any further embarrassment. “Make mine a Rumrunner, please.”

  He nodded and stepped away to prepare our orders. He made Sally’s drink first and then quickly finished mine and placed them both in front of us. Sally leaned forward, ready for round two of flirting, but I slapped a twenty on the bar and snatched our drinks before she could do any more damage. “Thank you,” I said.

  Matt seemed almost relieved. He dipped his head to both of us, grabbed the money, and disappeared down the line to fill someone else’s order.

  Sally watched him go before twisting in her seat to face me, completely oblivious. “So, Keira,” she started, then took a sip of her drink as if steeling herself for what she had to say. “I’ve been meaning to ask you all day. Can you come to the hospital and make another blood donation?”

  “What?” I croaked. My hand jerked in response to her question, causing the red-tinted liquid that comprised my drink to slosh and coat the napkin in wet, pink splotches. “I just donated a few days ago.”

  “I know, I know,” Sally said, her eyes wide, pleading. “But the blood we had has been misplaced. We can’t find it anywhere. I spent this morning tearing the hospital apart with no luck.” She blew out a frustrated breath. I couldn’t blame her.

  Very few humans knew about my blood outside our tribe. When Sally broached her idea of keeping some of my blood on hand to help supernaturals, and me, at one of our tribal council meetings, they decided to help set up the hospital in Great Falls. They made Sally, who already attended college to become a nurse, responsible for my blood, causing her to switch her major so she could become a phlebotomist.

  She gave me a hesitant smile, and then stared at her drink as if she thought I would yell at her. I seriously considered it. With my phobia of needles, donating once a month sucked bad enough, but now I’d have to donate once a week until we rebuilt the small stockpile. Yippee.

  “I’m really sorry, Keira, but the full moon is next week and you know what that means.” She ran a manicured nail through her hair, separating the strands between her fingers.

  “Yeah, I know what that means.” Although werewolves can change anytime they want, during a full moon, their beasts have the upper hand, making it harder for their human half to stay in control.

  Not long after supernaturals came out, the government mandated that werewolves barricade themselves inside during full moon nights. This created such uproar from the wolves it nearly resulted in civil war, so the government amended it: anyone with a pack must stay with their Alpha, but would be allowed to run in the woods; anyone without a pack must stay indoors.

  But, even with these precautions, accidents happened. As a result, the government made it so that any wolf who attacked and turned a human against their will, or killed a human, must be dealt with swiftly by their Alpha, or the entire pack would suffer the consequences. This had only happened once that I knew of, and the government declared open season, where humans could hunt them without reprisal on that wolf’s whole pack. Pack-less wolves were dealt with immediately by government officials armed with silver bullets.

  “Okay,” I ground out. “I’ll come in tomorrow and again early next week so you guys can have a little on hand for the full moon.” Sally’s shoulders relaxed as she exhaled. “Just make sure this batch doesn’t get misplaced. There’s only one of me, you know.” Something about either my heritage or my blood allowed me to donate more often than a normal person, but as much as I hated needles, I didn’t advertise the fact.

  I downed the rest of my Rumrunner and stood. “I’m heading to the dance floor. You coming?”

  Sally shook her head. “Nah, you go ahead. I’m going to finish my drink first.” Eyes pinched, she stared intently at something on the floor. I didn’t know if the full moon worried her that much, or if she felt guilty about the loss of my blood. Maybe a little of both.

  I placed my hand on her shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’ll come to the hospital and everything will be fine.”

  She gave me a faint smile. “Thanks, Keira. You’re the best.”

  I squeezed her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dozens of hot, gyrating bodies lost in the lyrical beat of the music swallowed me up as I hit the dance floor. Werewolves, vampires, humans…it didn’t matter who you were once you joined the throng.

  The music penetrated my stupor brought on by my conversation with Sally, forcing me to concentrate instead on where to put my body parts. Before I knew it, the loss of my blood and the oncoming appointment with dreaded sharp, pointy instruments faded away.

  The Flesh Eaters belted out their dark, sensuous lyrics as we raised our hands over our heads and swung our hips side to side, not minding whos
e bodies we bumped in the process. We were all there for the same reason: to escape, to let go, to just enjoy the moment.

  Halfway through the first chorus of “Call My Name,” a set of warm hands enveloped my waist. It startled me since dancing at the Blu Moon was typically a hands-off affair—something that had been implemented to protect us humans—but I wasn’t alarmed. With this many people moving, shaking, and grinding against one another, stray hands were to be expected.

  When the song finished and another one started up with the hands still attached to my waist, I decided to confront my touchy-feely assailant. I spun in his grip, ready to let the drunkard have it, only to be pleasantly surprised by what I found. Tall, dark, and handsome pretty much summed it up.

  A few inches separated us in height—not enough I’d have to tip-toe if I decided to steal a kiss, I noted—but enough I had to tilt my head up to get a good look at him. Short black hair, trimmed high and tight, accentuated prominent cheekbones. He didn’t have a shirt on, just a pair of faded black jeans with holes in the knees, and worn-out cowboy boots. A sheen of sweat trickled down his washboard abs. My gaze followed the wayward beads as they traveled south until they disappeared under the waistband of his jeans, and I almost whimpered from my lack of being able to follow.

  Embarrassed by my rampaging hormones, my eyes snapped up to his and I blushed. A mischievous grin spread across his face. “Like something you see, babe?”

  His voice sounded familiar, but I was sure I would have remembered if I’d met him before. “Do I know you?” I asked as I studied his face. His dark skin resembled my own, hinting at a native background, and tiny flecks of amber dotted his brown eyes. All of a sudden, it hit me.