Bite Deep (11 page)

‘There's someone in there,' Jericho said softly.

‘What?' she frowned, at first not understanding what he meant. Turning on the lights, she gave a start when she spied Novak lying on the cot, face illuminated by his phone as he read something on the screen. He sat up with a curse, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights.

‘What are you doing here, Gault?' he snarled.

She took in the grey tracksuit and the overnight bag under the cot. ‘Are you sleeping here?'

Novak ran a hand over his face, anger twisting his mouth down. When he spied Jericho, his eyes popped. ‘What is
he
doing here?'

‘Trouble with the wife again, Novak?' Jericho asked. His face was straight, but Lydia could tell he was thinking this night was becoming more and more entertaining. She had to kind of agree. Novak was staring at her like she was nuts.

‘Why is he here?' he demanded again.

‘I've arrested him for disorderly behaviour.' She shut down the trickle of fear Novak had planted in her earlier. She hadn't left her nightmares behind her to allow a small-town bully to intimidate her. She knew even if bringing in Jericho was a bit shady, she couldn't let Novak push her around. Not by a single inch. ‘So it looks like you're losing your bunk. Why don't you just go home?'

‘Does Bowden know you're arresting people off the clock?' Novak was nearly shouting now. ‘That you bought
him
here?'

‘Lower your voice.' Lydia kept her tone level. Reasonable. Like she knew what she was doing. Like she hadn't just potentially made a huge mistake.

Novak grinned. ‘When Bowden finds out about this, he's going to haul your ass over hot coals. And I'm going to watch.'

‘What do you care?' Lydia bit back. She was tired and irritated. Too tired for Novak's games. Let him try to throw what he had at her. She'd just discovered his dirty domestic laundry, so maybe that evened the playing field a little. After all, she was sure Novak didn't want Bowden to know he was camping out here rather than face whatever issue he had going on at home.

‘Why don't you run on home, little man.' Jericho's voice was an amused rumble.

Novak face twisted and he stepped out of the cell to thrust a finger against the biker's chest. ‘Don't you dare talk to me, scumbag.'

‘You touch me again and I'll break your finger.' Jericho's expression didn't change and Lydia stepped between them, hands raised.

‘Go home, Novak,' she said. ‘I've got everything under control here.'

‘You've got
nothing
under control here, you loopy bitch.' Novak reached around Lydia to thrust his finger at Jericho again. But when he made contact with the biker this time, there was a small crunching sound. Novak face went white, mouth open in a silent howl of pain. He snatched his hand back, outraged.

‘You broke my finger,' he gasped.

Lydia glared at Jericho and his honey eyes dropped to hers, impassive.

‘You heard me warn him,' he told her. Before she could answer, she saw Novak move from the corner of her eye, snatch up an item on his desk, then lunge at Jericho. She tried to stop him from doing anything stupid, but wasn't fast enough. Then Jericho was there, pushing her aside, and she stumbled back. Managing to keep her balance, she turned just as Novak shoved the knuckleduster taser into Jericho's side. Electricity crackled and spat, and the biker roared, stumbling to his knees.

She tried to catch Jericho as he fell. But he was too heavy and tumbled out of her grip, falling to the floor. Novak went after him, but Lydia blocked him and swung a fist, knuckles crunching against his nose. Blood spurted and he dropped the weapon with a yelp.

‘You goddamned bitch.' He backed up, one hand pressed against his nose, the other cradled against his chest.

Lydia opened her mouth to threaten Novak right back, adrenaline making her bold. A choking sound stopped her and she turned, seeing Jericho begin to convulse, body shaking, froth forming at the corner of his mouth.

‘Shit.' She dropped to his side, checking his pulse. It was racing—too fast. His body jerked violently and she heard cloth tear. She tried to hold him, tried to remember her first-aid training.

‘Call an ambulance,' she called to Novak. But all she heard in response was running footsteps, then the front door slamming shut. She looked up and swore. The Jaw had fled, like the coward she knew he was.

She snatched out her phone and begun to dial the emergency number, when it was knocked from her grip. A hand grabbed her wrist in a painful hold.

Her breath hitched as Jericho held her with a guttural growl, eyes glowing a reflective silver, twin mirror chips focused on her. His grip tightened painfully and, with a cry, she tried to twist free. But he was too strong and, losing her footing, she tumbled against him.

Primal instinct kicked in, her pulse galloped, her body charged with red-hot adrenaline. She'd played the victim once, and she'd be damned if she'd play it again. She struck out with her free hand towards Jericho's throat, but aimed too high and her fist glanced off his chin. Sharp pain shot down her arm, then she was free. More sounds of cloth tearing. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. All she knew was that something was terribly wrong with Jericho. She glanced at the marks on her left hand. And the bastard had
bitten
her.

* * *

Coulter stared into the cup of tea he'd been served, ignoring the rowdy crowd around him. Another foul brew of tea, muck from a cheap tea bag because the hostel didn't have anything else. He should have known it would be close to impossible to get a decent cup this far from civilisation.

The Swag, a thriving backpacker hostel, sat on the edge of town and the bar inside was exactly how Coulter had imagined: a jostling landscape of young, drunk tourists and backpackers comparing war stories, hiking boots stumbling over floors sticky from cheap beer and indifferent staff. He sighed and took a sip of his drink, wincing at the appalling taste. The Swag was filthy, but at least at this time of night it was unlikely anyone would pay him any attention; the residents were either too used to unfamiliar faces to think his presence unusual, or too intoxicated to care. The Hunter appeared beside him, beer in hand, and sat down with a smile.

‘What's the plan?' he asked.

‘You're shipping out tonight,' Coulter told him. ‘From here, I want you to go to the hanger, where the plane is waiting for you. It will take you to your next posting.'

The Hunter's brows snapped together. ‘What about my things? My belongings?'

‘Irrelevant,' Coulter said. ‘A good Hunter needs no material things. Remember your training.'

‘I don't understand.' The Hunter stared down at his beer, fingers working at the label. ‘Why am I being shipped out? You mentioned the Breed King might be arriving. If that's true, you need me. I know the area, I know the locals.'

‘The decision has been made.' Coulter watched the man, seeing his chin shift to a stubborn angle. ‘You're to be on that plane within the hour.'

‘To go where?' The Hunter's voice rose sharply. Coulter shot him a warning look.

‘You'll get a briefing once you're in the air.' He stopped and tried to erase any tension from his voice, though his fingers tightened around his cooling mug of tea. Extraction might prove a delicate business with such a fractured mind.

The Hunter's eyes darted away and skipped across the assortment of backpackers wandering about, chattering happily. Coulter tensed. He knew that look. It was a man trying to decide his next move, a man weighing up his choices. Then his head dropped a little and Coulter loosened his grip on his mug, certain the man would obey. He reached out to pat the Hunter's back and, though the gesture was awkward, he hoped it helped somewhat. After all, they were still both bound by a common bond and fellowship of the Association.

‘Do not forget you are who you are and who you work for,' Coulter told him. ‘Our kind must always travel to where the world needs us most.'

The Hunter's eyes narrowed. ‘And who will take my place?'

Coulter tried to think of a lie that sounded plausible, but took too long and understanding dawned in the Hunter's eyes.

‘The cop. Your niece. You'll ask her, won't you. That bitch is replacing me, isn't she.'

‘No,' Coulter lied easily. ‘She wouldn't be suitable at all.'

The Hunter turned away, fingers picking and tearing at the beer-bottle label until it was just scraps of paper. Coulter wasn't sure his lie was believed, but there was nothing he could do about that. He sipped his drink, grimacing when he found it cold. It didn't matter what the man thought, just as long as he was on that plane tonight, before he could do any more damage.

Chapter 10

The roaring tide of rage receded from Jericho's mind and he grasped tight that steel core of well-honed discipline inside of him. He was in control. Not the anger. Not the beast.

He sucked in a shaky breath and let his body go limp. With each blink, the cloudy haze retreated even more, until he could hear his own breath, could feel his limbs. Normal. Calm. He was just a man. He struggled to sit up, limbs feeling weak, and realised someone was helping him. Talking to him. Working out it was Lydia, he tried to focus on her words, but couldn't shake the ringing in his ears.

His eyesight cleared up and he saw her leaning over him, saying something he couldn't make out, and then she disappeared. He rubbed his eyes, trying to piece together what had happened. That fucker, Novak, had hit him with something. He remembered the sound. A taser. He'd been fucking tasered. Jericho stretched his fingers, feeling the telltale stiffness, the faint buzzing in his ears. He'd been close to reverting. Something had happened when that dumb fuck had zapped him. Something that had overridden his control and jump-started a reversion. It was just fortunate for both of them he had the strength to control it.

‘Here.'

He looked up to see Lydia offering him a glass of water. He took it gratefully and drained the glass, the cool liquid soothing his raw throat. When he was finished, he passed it back with an unsteady hand.

‘Are you alright?' Her voice was soothing, spreading over the leftover fragment of his beast-raged thoughts, cooling the fury. ‘I think you had a fit of some sort.'

‘Not the first time.' He looked around the empty station. ‘Where's Constable Jerk-off?'

‘Ran off.' She helped him to his feet and he took the assistance gratefully, feeling the strength in her body, even though he caught a trace of fear in her eyes. He guessed his little near miss had rattled her somewhat. He wondered how far he'd gotten to reverting, how close she'd come to being torn to shreds by his own hand, and the thought made him sick.

‘I'm sorry if I frightened you.' He checked his clothing, saw rips along the seam of his shirt where his shoulders had begun to change. It had been close. Very close. Anger licked hot through him. He was going to find Novak and personally let him know the consequences of fucking with him.

‘I think we need to at least call a doctor,' Lydia said. ‘Get you checked. I need to make sure you're alright.'

‘I don't want to see anyone—' He stopped, the way Lydia was cradling her left hand snagging his attention. He reached towards her, and she flinched. He stopped and pointed at her hand.

‘Did I do that?' He tried to make the question casual, like her life didn't depend on her answer. But he already knew what she would say.

She shifted her hand out of his sight. ‘It's nothing. Don't worry about it. I'm more concerned with getting you checked out.'

‘I'm fine.' Jericho tried to ignore the cold sweat that had broken out down his spine, the fear that had clenched around his stomach. He'd seen the marked flesh well enough.

Bite mark.

A violent storm assaulted his thoughts, riding the horror of what he'd done. If she was infected, she had maybe forty-eight hours at most to live. Then, at some point, Lydia's pulse would accelerate, her skin would begin to bleed and sweat. The fine, delicate bones in the hand would break first, back muscles pulling and knitting tight around their new formation as the rest of the body was torn into its new form. Unprepared for such a transformation, it would simply shatter her. It was impossible for an adult to live through the process. Death was the kinder choice and he knew it would have to be dealt by his hand.

He reached towards her, trying not to think about what he had to do. One hand curled around the gentle curve of her neck, knowing a quick break would be best. Just a quick snap and it would be over. Then he would dispose of her body, like he had others. He readied himself, knowing that to put it off would only make it worse.

‘Jericho?'

His hand paused. She watched him with those sweet violet eyes, uncertain of what he was doing, but unafraid. She wasn't afraid and somehow, that knowledge undid him.

She reached up to brush her fingers against his hand, the contact sending a jolt through him. ‘Are you feeling dizzy?'

He dropped his hand, unable to do his duty. He licked his dry lips, thinking hard. Typically, only a fully turned Breed could pass on the virus. Since Lydia hadn't run screaming, perhaps he hadn't reverted enough to pass on the virus. Maybe she'd be okay. Maybe.

‘Just dizzy. But I think I'm good now.' He dropped his hand. ‘Hope I didn't break the skin.'

‘It was an accident. Just forget it.'

He watched her as she looked about the station, clearly weighing up her options. He hesitated, then walked into the cell and sat on the cot, the springs creaking in protest. He needed a chance to collect his thoughts, try to get a plan together. Short of knocking Lydia out and dragging her unconscious to the Crystal Waters underground medical lab to see if she'd contracted the virus, he didn't have much of an idea of what to do. And the thought of doing anything violent against her repulsed him. He couldn't bear to see her cringe in fear at the sight of him. He could only hope she wasn't infected. It was tenuous, but it was all he had.