Bloodborn (19 page)

But no. That's never going to happen now. I'm infected.

“Cyn.” I withdraw from her. “I can't.”

Her eyes flare, and I can see the hurt on her face. “What's wrong?”

“I'm trying to move forward, like you said, but—” My voice breaks. “But I know this is impossible. I can't be with you.”

“Why?”

“
Because I'm not the guy you want!” The words explode from me. “I'm a
gick, oka
y?”

“Don't—”

“You wanted me to change, and I have. This is who I am now. I'm a werewolf. I'm never going to be able to go home with you, Cyn.”

She stares at me with bright eyes. “You don't know that.”

“How can I go back to Klikamuks? When they all know what I am, they'll hate me.”

“Not everybody hates werewolves, Brock.”

“The ones who do are enough.” I dump the clothes onto the ground, grab a pair of jeans and start pulling them on. “Don't ask me how we're supposed to escape the cops and clear our names and live happily ever after.”

“Happily ever after?” Randall strides closer. “For starters, get your asses moving.”

“Sorry,” Cyn says, her jaw clenched. “We're moving.”

She stalks back to the road, and I have no choice but to follow.

nineteen

W
e see the lights of Denver, staining the sky purple, before the city itself. Skyscrapers jut on the horizon, their glittering windows outshining the stars. Driving straight down the highway into canyons of steel gives me this tight, jittery feeling—how the hell can this be a good idea, going toward the crowds and the cops?

“Almost there, almost there,” Jessie chants under her breath.

I want to hold my breath until we're there, until I know we're safe
.

Finally, we find an old brick building without any windows, the curly red neon letters spelling
Rex's Steakhouse
. After Jessie bitches about scraping the paint on the convertible, we park in an alley, then skulk around behind the steakhouse. Winema is already there with Charles, watching a rat scuffle under a dumpster.

“Classy,” Cyn mutters.

“Jessie, Isabella,” Winema says. “You're with me.”

The sisters flank their Alpha, their eyes flashing in the darkness.

“And us?” Randall asks.

“Bring the bloodborn, and the girl. To explain things.”

Randall plants his hand between my shoulder blades, and my back stiffens. He shoves me forward, and we march up to the door marked
Employees Only
. Winema raps on the door, her knuckles making a dull metallic ping. After a minute, the door opens and there's a huge guy in a tight black T-shirt, his face all scarred up.

“Yes?” he says.

“Danathiel sent us. We would like to speak with Cliff Sterling.”

The huge guy arches a battered eyebrow, but says nothing.

Winema's about a foot shorter than this guy, but she stares straight into his eyes. “I'm the Alpha of the Bitterroot Pack. I'd like to ask him a favor.”

The huge guy's gaze slides away, and he steps aside. “Come inside.”

We follow him through a dark stockroom that smells a lot like cardboard and a little like blood, then down a dusty staircase with a single light bulb swaying above our heads. Claws itch in my fingernails. This looks like the perfect place to murder somebody and chop their body up into tiny pieces—maybe serve it in the steakhouse later.

We reach a single door at the bottom of the staircase. Another guy, even huger, nods at the first guy, then opens the door for us.

Down here, the sweet sagebrush perfume of faerie wine is so thick it makes me dizzy just to breathe. This must be the Moonshine, all slick black leather and glass mixed with scarred wooden tables and roughhewn granite. Jazz music smoothes over the clink of knives carving meat. Backlit bottles glow green, blue, and amber along a wall at the bar. Men in tuxes and women in evening gowns sip leaf-green faerie wine from champagne glasses, their eyes predatory as they scan the room. I feel like a dirty five-year-old in my borrowed jeans and T-shirt, and I'm very aware this isn't our territory.

“Cliff must be in the VIP lounge,” Winema says.

She leans on Charles's arm as she navigates through the crowd. Ahead, there's a doorway with red curtains tied back by gold ropes, trying a little too hard to look swank. The room beyond is dark and denlike; wall-to-wall leather couches circle a low table. A man sits alone. A black cowboy hat shadows his face as he bends over his plate, sawing into a bloody, raw chunk of steak. At least, I hope it's steak.

“Excuse me,” Winema says. “I wondered if I—”

“Haven't seen you in years,” the man says in a soft voice. “Please, have a seat.”

He brings a piece of steak to his mouth and I glimpse a flash of fangs. When Winema sits opposite him, he looks up at last.

So this is Cliff Sterling. Blond hair, a reddish beard, a weatherworn face zigzagged by scars. He looks about as old as my dad. Pinned to his lapel, there's a mysterious gold-dusted lily the color of sky. From the Faerie Queen.

“Welcome to the Moonshine,” Cliff says. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Winema says, “but we don't have much time.”

He dabs his mouth with a napkin and shakes his head. “You're safe here. The law wouldn't dare set foot in my den.”

“Thank you,” Winema says. “How much do you know?”

“The gist.” Cliff sips some faerie wine—guess he samples what he sells. “You've been outlaws for quite some time, but it appears a particular sheriff is hell-bent on taking you down. I'm impressed you lasted this long.”

Winema raises her eyebrows. “An advantage of keeping your pack small. Mobility.”

“Would you like a drink?” Cliff slides a crystal bottle across the table. “This is one of the finest vintages, by the Faerie Queen's personal distiller.”

“I can't.” Winema's hand rests on her pregnant belly.

“Ah, forgive me. I wasn't thinking.” Cliff frowns. “When are you due?”

“Soon. Too soon. I don't want my baby to be born in these circumstances.”

Charles rests his hand on Winema's shoulder. Cyn glances at me, her eyes gleaming darkly in the shadows.

Cliff tilts his head and closes his eyes for a moment. “You need my help.”

“Are you willing to offer it?”

He gives her the thinnest of smiles. “Always. But you will no longer be an Alpha. The Bitterroot pack will simply … ” He sips his wine. “Vanish.”

My stomach tightens. “Vanish?”

Cliff's pale gray eyes latch on mine, and I look away to show submission. I'm probably out of line even opening my mouth.

“A bloodborn?” says the Zlatrovik Alpha.

“He's mine, sir,” Randall says. “He's new.”

“I could tell.” Cliff's gaze slides to Cyn. I hate how he's looking at her like she's a heifer for sale. “And the human girl?”

“A hostage.” Winema's face hardens. “She won't be staying with us much longer. I trust you can help us in that regard?”

Cliff nods. “Once you become Zlatroviks, your past lives will cease to exist.”

My past life will cease to exist.
Like me and Cyn never met. Like there never was a Brock before.

“Provided,” Cliff adds, “that each of your wolves proves their loyalty.”

“There are children in the Bitterroot Pack,” Winema says.

Cliff smiles. “You would be surprised what a child can do.”

Winema stares at the empty wine glass on the table. Her eyes look like she's trying to stare years ahead. Charles squeezes her shoulder, his face tight, but his eyes glitter with the kind of hope some people call desperation.

“That's what I can offer you,” Cliff says. A waitress refills his glass of faerie wine, and he sips it slowly. “Nothing more.”

“Winema,” Charles says, “this is why we came here.”

“I know,” she says. “But—I know.”

Jessie and Isabella share a glance. I wonder if they're worried about their Alpha showing weakness. Our Alpha. I'm a part of this.

“I would suggest that you sleep on it,” Cliff says, “but I doubt you have much time.”

“Yes.” Winema looks him in the eye. “We will join you.”

Cliff smiles. “Welcome to the family.” Despite the sweet way he says his words, there's a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Winema keeps Charles, Isabella, and Jessie with her and Cliff in the VIP lounge. They all order dinner, on the house, so there must be a lot of negotiating ahead. Me and Cyn follow Randall back to the main room of the Moonshine, where we sit at the bar. Nobody looks at us, their faces shadowy and impossible to read.

Cyn nudges me with her elbow. “What's going on?”

“Hell if I know.” I look at Randall. “Do you know what you're doing next?”

His eyes look like embers in the darkness. “What
we're
doing next,” he corrects. “You're going to have to prove to Cliff that he should make you one of his own, a Zlatrovik, just like everybody else will. Or … well, there isn't an or. Unless you're happy with the idea of facing a really fucked-up justice system.”

I feel like I swallowed ice. “Me?”

He claps his hand on my shoulder and gives me a crooked smile. “I told Winema what happened, bloodborn. You're part of the pack.”

Cyn finds my hand beneath the bar and grips it tight. “What if he doesn't want that?”

Randall doesn't even look at her. “He doesn't belong with you.” His phone buzzes, and he digs it out of his pocket to read a text.

I stare blankly at the reflections in the polished wood of the bar. She doesn't belong here, either. She can't be part of this plan. I don't know what's going to happen to her, but they won't let her get away and tell the police.

“What about Cyn?” I say.

Randall shuts his phone and slips it into his pocket. “I don't know.”

Something in his voice tells me he's lying, that he knows what the Zlatroviks do to humans who know too much.

Cyn leans across me to stare at Randall. “I can't be your hostage forever. Right?”

He looks at her with dark, dark eyes. “We don't need you anymore.”

What did that text say? Did Winema order him to hand Cyn over to the Zlatroviks? Take her to an alley and kill her himself?

“I can find my own way out.” Cyn stares boldly into his eyes. “If you let me go.”

“It's not going to work like that,” Randall says.

I squeeze her hand tight. Don't do anything reckless, Cyn.

“Brock,” she says, half-standing. “Let's go.”

I can feel Cyn's hand sweating in mine. She glances at me, a bright shard of hope in her eyes, full of maybes for me and her.

“Go?” Randall shakes his head and laughs, but it sounds fake. “Don't try to play hero. You're both going to get yourselves killed the moment you set foot in the street. Either by the police or, more likely, Cliff's men.”

“But we joined their pack,” I say. “They wouldn't kill us, they—”

“We haven't earned their loyalty yet.” Randall glances at the time on his cell phone and growls. “Jesus, what's taking so long?”

“What is?” I say, but he ignores me.

Cyn hesitates. “Brock, have you heard about these tests of loyalty?” Without waiting for my reply, she keeps talking. “The Zlatroviks are infamous. They're going to make you murder one of their enemies. At the very least.”

I clench my jaw. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Finally,” Randall mutters.

A tall man in a black shirt sits on the barstool next to Cyn. He smiles for her eyes only, and his goatee makes him look devilish. He reeks with a sickly sweet aroma, like faerie wine mixed with something burnt.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he says to her, like I'm not even there.

I press my fingernails into Cyn's palm in warning.

“Sure,” she says.

My eyes snap to Cyn, and I see a slow smile bloom on her face. The wrongness of it twists my guts. She watches, smiling, as the stranger buys a bottle of faerie wine and pours her a glass of the green liquor himself.

“Cyn!” I say. “What do—”

“Please,” says the stranger.

He glances at me, and his eyes glitter like black glass. A drunken feeling clouds my head. My hand goes limp, and Cyn's sweaty fingers slide past my skin.

Who is this stranger? He doesn't smell like a wolf … more like Demon Dan. A faerie.

I swing my head toward Randall, my pulse throbbing in my temples. “Randall.”

He's staring at Cyn with a carefully empty expression, but I can see pain sharpening his eyes. He was waiting for this.

Cyn lifts a glass of faerie wine to her lips. She drains it dry.

“Cynthia.” The word escapes me as a growl, cutting through the clouds in my head.

Randall catches my arm. “Brock,” he says in a low, intense voice. “Leave her alone. You have to let her go.”

“No,” I say, my own voice too loud in my ears. “Cynthia, stop.”

She glances at me, her eyes glossy and unfocused. “Try some, Brock! This stuff is … really good.” Her forehea
d hits the bar, and she giggles, her shoulders shaking. “Some more, please,” she slurs, her voice muffled.

She's shitfaced already? Christ, faerie wine must be toxic.

“Brock.” Randall drags me away from the bar. “They're helping her forget.”

“Forget what?”

“All of this. And then she can go home.”

My eyes burn. “What's all of this?”

The words rattle from Randall's mouth like bullets. “The kidnapping, the police, the pack, the faeries, everything. You have to let her go.”

I shake my head and try to step past him, but he blocks my
way.

“Do it for her,” he whispers. “Not for yourself.”

“No!”

The faerie guy glances at us. “Would you like me to give him some wine, as well?”

To forget it all. To know nothing about the teeth that scarred me, the disease that took my brother away, the hate that fills my family's eyes.