Bite Deep (33 page)

‘Lydia?' Bowden started coming around his desk. ‘Are you alright?'

‘I have to go.' She turned and ran out of the station, Bowden shouting out behind her, asking what was wrong. But she didn't stop, didn't bother, because there was only one person she trusted to have her back.

* * *

Karla sat in the passenger seat, listening to the soft swishing sound of the windscreen wipers work against the morning rain and watching the rolling green fields pass by. What Camden lacked socially it made up for in breathtaking scenery. Not that she would miss the place when she moved on. And she would be moving on, despite Vaughn's plans. No man ruled her.

‘Are you sure about coming?' Vaughn glanced at her, before returning his attention to the road. ‘This is something I can do on my own.'

‘I'm sure,' she replied. There was no doubt in her mind that the cop Jericho was so taken with had to die, and she wasn't one to shy away from watching it happen.

She had been impressed with Vaughn's handling of the matter. He'd even checked in with a senior council member, who had agreed immediately with the Enforcer's assessment. Once bitten, an adult must be dispensed with. Anything else was considered cruel. Karla did note he hadn't checked in with the King on the matter and wondered if perhaps his illness was more advanced than she had been led to believe. But whatever was wrong with her brother, she was sure it would play into her favour. After all, a weak king was easy to topple.

For now, she would be satisfied with the death of the woman Jericho had fallen for. And though Vaughn had wanted to wait until the cover of darkness, she had discovered the cop was home today. Easy prey. And a clear lesson to Jericho that if he crossed her, he would suffer the consequences.

Chapter 33

Jericho's bike roared as he sped towards the bar. A shotgun blast echoed through the forest and he knew he'd be too late to stop any bloodshed. He twisted the throttle harder, back wheels of his heavy bike spinning out on the dirt driveway as he rounded a corner. The bar shot into view seconds later, the front car park a chaotic clash of toppled bikes and brawling men. He had time to register maybe thirty armed Slayers, against a dozen G1s and his crew, brandishing knives and baseball bats.

He rammed his bike into two Slayers, sending them sprawling into the mud, weapons knocked from hands. He dismounted just as another Slayer came at him with a knife and he ducked, then shot up with an uppercut that saw the Slayer spitting teeth. A right hook into his jaw and the biker crumpled to the ground.

Scoping the crowd, Jericho spied Reaper swinging a bat at offending heads and breaking them with an almost casual grace. Blades darted about, dagger slashing, and Frost kept pace with him, fists flying with an economy of movement that was impressive to watch. Shotguns blazed and men shouted to each other, boots kicking up mud as rain fell about them.

Something solid smashed against the back of his head and he stumbled to his knees, head spinning, bad knee jolting. Twisting, he spied a Slayer aiming a shotgun at his face. His hand jerked up, shoving the muzzle to the side a second before it discharged in an explosion of sound. Ears ringing, Jericho drove himself up and smashed his shoulder into the Slayer's stomach and his attacker went down. Jericho grabbed the shotgun, and hammered his would-be attacker in the groin, a solid hit that saw the biker roll to his side, gasping. More hands grabbed him then, and he felt something sharp spit by him, blood spilling hot down his cheek. He swung the shotgun, making contact with the bodies around him and then he was free. Dropping the weapon, his hands and training took over as he took down as many Slayers as he could.

The ringing in his ears faded and he looked around at the devastation that had come so close to those he was supposed to protect. Among the clash, he spied Turk, one arm limp, swinging a heavy iron chain, and Winger at his back with a pair of knuckledusters.

A terrible desperation welled up inside him, a pressure filling his head to burst. This was his pack, those he'd sworn to protect. And he was failing them. Throwing back his head, he tapped into the soul of his beast and let loose a howl of rage and anger. The sound sliced through the air as if it were a blade, searching for a secret to cut from the night air. And there, at the edge of the wood, something ancient stirred and it flooded his limbs with a newfound power, smelling like leaves burning in sulfur and flooding his mouth with a burning copper taste. Around him, men stilled, as if their primal senses knew instantly something arcane had been awakened. The trees whispered and a wave of fine mist fell on the crowd. When a spray of droplets sprinkled Jericho's face, his skin tingled and burned as if touched by a burst of acid rain. The wind picked up as Jericho's voice began falter and a whistling wind deepened to an unearthly moan, as if the forest was answering his call.

The Slayers shifted, darting frightened glances around them, the fight leaving their eyes, replaced with fear.

Goosebumps pricked Jericho's skin as he lowered his head, seeing he had everyone's attention. ‘Leave,' he addressed the Slayers. ‘And don't show your faces here again.'

A heavy pause, then a silent signal passed through the Slayer ranks. One by one they helped each other climb onto battered bikes and into vans, roaring off. Jericho barely noticed, too busy walking through the wounded and taking stock of injuries as each man helped each other. He nearly missed a fallen G1, who lay crumpled beside an old car, head nearly severed by a blade. Jericho stared down at the fallen man before turning and slamming a fist against the side of the car. Pain shot up his arm and he welcomed it, feeling it was deserved. He flexed his throbbing hand, seeing the deep dent he'd left behind in the side of the car. He'd failed in his duty to protect again. Intruders had come to his home and had hurt his men. Another grave to dig. Another death to carry.

Heavy footsteps sounded and he turned to see Blades approach. He was supporting Turk, whose bloodied right leg looked like it had copped a close-range shotgun blast.

‘Thanks, Bulldog,' Blades said. ‘Whatever alpha shit you just pulled, you saved our asses.'

Jericho nodded at Turk's leg. ‘You going to be alright?'

‘It's just lead.' Turk shifted and winced. ‘I'll heal.'

‘And you?' Jericho's eyes shifted to Blades, spying several bullet wounds in his left arm.

‘Nothing permanent,' Blades answered. ‘We got the heads-up just in time to get some men ready to defend the bar.'

Reaper and Frost came up alongside them, both faces grim and splattered in mud. Reaper pointed at the vest, which bore the marks of being hit by more than once by bullets.

‘Decided I don't care if it's a butterfly,' he remarked. ‘This saved me a lot of pain today.'

‘They're dragons.' Winger came up alongside them, wiping his blood-splattered knuckledusters on his jeans. ‘Can't you tell?'

Reaper wrapped a hand around the back of the prospect's neck in an affectionate gesture. ‘Dragons, it is.'

‘We've doubled security at the Dog House,' Frost told Jericho. ‘Every man is on high alert.'

Jericho hesitated, glancing at Turk, the question in his eyes. Was he still in charge, or had the power base already shifted to Vaughn? He understood now it wasn't something he would challenge Vaughn over. He wouldn't even stand in his way. If his brothers thought it was time for him to step aside, then he would do so, because that's what family did. Sacrificed everything for those they loved.

The old biker met his eye with a steady gaze. ‘Couldn't even get Vaughn on the phone. The bastard had it turned off, as if he there was something more important he had to be doing than being around here.'

‘Did you call Crystal Waters?' Jericho asked.

‘Fuck that,' Turk snarled. ‘He wasn't here when he could have helped. He's no leader.'

‘That's right,' Blades said. ‘We can't have that prick being in charge.'

Jericho felt something like pride fill his chest. He was still needed by his brothers and still trusted. It meant a lot. ‘Then he won't be,' he said. ‘I'll call council, make sure they fully understand what's going on here.'

‘You think the Slayers will come back?' Blades asked, wiping some of the blood from his face.

Before he could reply, Jericho's phone rang. He answered it when he saw Lydia's name, stepping away from his crew. ‘This is a bad time, baby.'

‘I need you at my house. Now.'

‘Lydia—'

‘Anna Lewis's killer is Jamie McCormick, the fireman I was out with at the Grill.'

Jericho's hand tightened around his mobile. ‘Where are you right now?'

‘I'm coming from the police station.' She paused to suck in a quick breath. ‘Listen, the Solbergs aren't answering their phone and I've got a bad feeling. I'm heading home to check on them.'

‘You need to stay at the station,' Jericho ordered her. ‘I'll check this guy out.'

‘No.' Her breath turned choppy as she began to hurry her pace, then the phone went silent in his hand as she hung up, not waiting to hear if he'd come or not. Guess she knew him pretty well.

‘What's wrong?'

Jericho looked up from his phone to see his brothers watching him. He tucked his phone away, palmed his keys. ‘Lydia knows who the Hunter is. Thinks he might be going to her house. She's travelling from the cop station.'

‘Winger and I will sort things out here,' Turk said, and Blades let him go, joining Frost and Reaper as they moved for their bikes, keys jangling. Jericho keyed his ignition, his bike roaring to life with a deep growl.

‘We got an ID yet?' Frost shouted over the roar of engines.

‘Doesn't matter.' Jericho snapped his throttle, letting his bike roar. ‘You see someone, other than the Solbergs or Lydia, you kill 'em.'

Chapter 34

Lydia slammed on the brakes at the last minute outside her home, coming to a stop beside a blue hatchback she didn't recognise. She sat for a moment, frozen, staring at her front door that sat wide open. He was inside. Fear twisted her stomach and her legs shook, knees feeling loose. Her breath became a harsh rasp and black dots peppered her vision. The killer was inside. Another killer she'd missed.

How
?

She tried to control her breathing. Tried to force her frozen limbs to move, heart hammering against her ribs.

‘Lydia Gault, get moving right now,' she whispered to herself. ‘
Move
.'

Sweat trickling down the back of her neck, she opened her car door, almost having to pull herself out of the ute.

Around her, the woods whispered with a rising wind and a light shower of rain began to fall. She staggered towards the open door, breath ragged. Would Jamie look the same? Or would he be changed, now that she knew what he was? Would she see it? Would she be able to see the evil inside him?

At the door, she peered inside. Nothing looked out of place, save for the smashed tray on the kitchen floor, globs of lasagna splattered around. Hand shaking, she pulled the gun from the back of her jeans and stepped inside. Eyes raking the room, she noted the sudden shadows as the sun was covered by gathering storm clouds. The smell of blood flipped her stomach. Her eyes settled on Greta at the kitchen table, her throat slashed open. Beside her, Dominic lay face down on the ground, not moving.

Lydia stepped over to him, her heart a thunderous beat in her ears, blotting all else out. Kneeling beside Dominic, she saw blood on the back of his head as she fumbled for a pulse, managing to find a faint one.

She stood, shutting down that feeling part of herself as she clinically assessed Greta's blood-soaked body, thankful at least the elderly woman's eyes were closed. The wound looked fresh, not more than an hour old, and the thought was like a crushing blow.

She shut the regret down and moved away from the body, searching for the man who'd ended Greta's life. A crushing sensation gripped her chest, doubling her heartbeat, and she wanted to scream with frustration. She couldn't have a panic attack now. She didn't have time for it. She had to control it, had to control herself, or she was going to get dead.

‘Lydia.'

A scream nearly ripped from her, but she managed to clamp her teeth down on it. Jamie stood by the back door, body lit by a ray of sunlight. In his right hand he held a bowie knife, the blade bloody. Lydia fought an overwhelming urge to drop her weapon and plead for her life. But her nerve held and her hands did not let go, and the pleas would not come. Jamie walked towards her with slow, measured steps, ignoring the gun she pointed at him.

‘Don't come any closer,' she hissed. ‘Drop the knife.'

Jamie levelled his blade at her. ‘I knew you'd come eventually. I knew we'd have this chance together. You see, there's just no way you could replace me. And, I'm afraid, I have to make sure of that.'

‘Keep away from me.' The words were raw, desperate, but he kept coming toward her, slow step by step. She braced herself and pulled the trigger, hitting him three times in the chest. Jamie staggered back, face a grimace, but didn't go down. Lydia narrowed her eyes when she didn't see any blood.

‘Oh, Lydia.' Jamie's voice was breathless, as if he'd just been winded. ‘You're hurting my feelings now.'

She pulled the trigger again, aiming for a headshot, but her arms began to shake and her vision blurred. Chest constricting, heartbeat racing, she fired two more shots, heard them shatter something beyond her target.

‘What's wrong?' His voice was close now, so close. ‘Are you having one of your panic attacks? I read your file, you know. Just terrible what you had to go through. I guess all the medication in the world can never fix what he did to you. How he cut you. The things he wanted to do to you.'

Her nerve snapped and she turned and ran, stumbling back outside, gasping for breath. Almost falling down the veranda steps, she lurched for the edge of the woods. She had to run, had to flee, and her legs pumped without rhythm or grace. Just a mad scramble for her life.