H.T. Night's 8-Book Vampire Box Set (2 page)

Okay, maybe I did have ten pounds to
lose.

I studied my face. It was clean, with few
marks and scars, not like some of the other professional fighters I
knew. The ones who had been in it for a while usually sported
knots, bumps, scars, broken noses, busted cheekbones, and more. My
own face was remarkably unmarred, considering I had never said ‘no’
to a fight in my life. In fact, I had been fighting off bullies
since I was seven years old. My shiny blonde hair, as pretty as any
girl’s, had made me a target for bullies who called me names and
took their shots at me, thinking that my angelic appearance
translated into an easy target for beatings. In those years, me,
the pretty boy, had to fight my way into Respectville by pummeling
the neverending parade of bullies. I got so good at defending
myself on the street that I turned it into my lifework. I was a
natural, really, growing from a much picked-on kid into
professional fighter.

Nowadays, I looked more like a surfer than a
mixed martial arts fighter. People often misread my casual beach
bum look and underestimated me. That was a good thing.
Interestingly, there’s something about the way I look that makes
most guys want to start a fight with me. I don’t know if it’s the
fact that I look as if I should be singing lead in a boy band or
that I’m extremely confident. Anyway, there’s something about me
that makes random strangers want to mix it up with
me—constantly!

Too bad for them.

An ex-girlfriend once asked me why I love to
fight. My answer was simple: Some guys were born to fix cars or
play football. Some guys were born to be astronauts or to hit a
fastball. I was born to fight. It’s the only thing in this world
that ever made perfect sense to me. When I’m in a fight, time
stands still. I see everything in slow motion. My brain goes into
Good Will Hunting mode, and I’m able to quickly determine what I
want to do to inflict the most damage to my opponent.

Anyway, I put on a pair of sweats, a
t-shirt, and my running shoes. Once done, I headed outside the
house that Tommy and I shared, and did some stretching next to the
tall sycamore tree in the front yard.

I was still stretching when I heard a
familiar kee-eeeee-arr cry from above. I looked up, and there was
Daphne. Daphne was a beautiful red hawk that seems to have
developed a fondness for me over the past couple of years. She made
herself known each day by crying her distinctive call or sometimes
a shrill chwirk sound while flying low enough, so I could see her.
I still have no idea where she came from or why she seemed so
interested in me. I named her Daphne one day after watching an
episode of Scooby-Doo. They were both redheads, so the name seemed
to fit her. I have been known to be partial to redheaded women.

“I’m off for a run, Daphne; try to keep up
with me.”

I gave Daphne a wink and took off running.
The beautiful bird let out an amicable loud chwirk as I headed down
the street. At first, I went fairly slow with my run. Daphne
followed me for about a block or two and then pulled back. I kicked
up my heels and began to run at a faster pace. I quickly ran out of
the neighborhood and headed for the main street that led up to Cal
State San Bernardino. I liked running at the college. It was
peaceful at night and, as long as I avoided campus police, I
usually had no problems.

I turned left and headed down University Way
toward the college. I could hear loud music, which meant that I was
approaching the Gamma Phi Beta frat house. They always had a party
going on, and this Thursday night was no different. Their frat
house was a massive two-story white house that stood out like a
sore thumb in a neighborhood that was filled with smaller
houses.

As I ran toward the house, I noticed that
the party was in full swing. Animal House style, there were a lot
of cars parked out front, and people milling around outside in
various stages of dress, undress, and loudness, depending on how
much alcohol they had consumed. Music thumped from the open front
door, with the bass so loud that the people inside were sure to go
deaf for a couple of days. I hurried past the house, so I wouldn’t
have to hear drunk frat boys yelling out things like “Run, Forrest,
run!”

As I was about to pass the house without
incident, underneath the thumping hip-hop, I heard a chilling
scream. The scream was so distinctive and piercing that it made me
stop in my tracks.

I turned around, and as I did so, I heard it
again. It was coming from behind the house. The gate was open, so I
walked toward it. I thought it could just be college girls having a
good time, but then I heard it for a third time. This time, it was
louder and more uneasy.

As I neared the back gate, I saw movement in
a window. A young, dark-haired woman wearing a black dress was
desperately opening a window. I picked up my pace, running now. She
wrenched up the window, looked over her shoulder, and then jumped
from the upstairs window.

Holy shit.

She dropped behind some hedges, where I
heard her scream and crash through something wooden. She reappeared
a moment later, limping badly and bleeding from fresh scratches
along her face and elbows.

She and I reached the side gate about the
same time. Amazingly, I recognized the girl. In fact, we had gone
to high school together at Eisenhower. She was one of those girls
who had been into Goth and had kept to herself in an emo way. I saw
that she was barefoot, and her black dress was torn at the right
shoulder. Blood oozed from the opening. Her jet-black hair was
messy, and she appeared to have been crying.

I would be crying, too, if I had just jumped
from the second floor.

I failed to dredge up her name from my
memory bank. “Hey, Eisenhower girl!” I shouted, joyful that I
remembered her at all. And then I demanded to know, “What the hell
is going on?”

Chapter Two

The girl’s eyes met mine for the first time,
and her initial reaction was to shrink away from me, but then they
widened with what I could only describe as hope. “I know you!” She
shouted at me. “Please! Help me, please!”

But before I could respond, she threw
herself into my arms, nearly knocking me over. I tried to look at
her face, but she held me tight.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you hurt?”

She released me and grabbed my arm. “Please,
just get me out of here!”

“What’s going on?”

“Just get me out of here!”

“I don’t have a car. I’m on foot—”

“I don’t care! Just help me leave!”

I had just watched her jump from an upstairs
window, and unless she was on a bad trip, she needed some serious
help. But who was she running from? I wasn’t very good at this sort
of thing, but then again, who is?

“Okay, then.” I grabbed her hand as we ran
back around to the front of the house. The party was still raging.
For the most part, her scream had gone unnoticed, although a few
guys were watching me. Maybe they noticed her blood.

And just as we hit the front sidewalk, a
plump redheaded guy, with flaming hair like a copper penny, vivid
in that Carrot Top Thompson way, burst through the front door and
down the porch, chasing us.

“Lena!” he screamed. “Where you going,
baby?”

“I’m getting the hell out of here, Ron—or
Ronnie—whatever the hell your name is. You and your friends can
kiss my ass.”

I was still holding her hand. A crowd was
gathering.

What the hell had I got myself into?

“Well, that’s what we were trying to do
until you decided to be a tease,” the redheaded goon said. This guy
was a piece of work. He had more freckles than any twenty-year-old
man I had ever seen. He was heavy-set and could have used more time
in the gym and less time drinking dark, imported brewskies at a
frat party. The empty brown bottles littered the lawn. Damn,
expensive stuff, too, that Carlsberg Elephant beer.

Ron smirked and started to walk toward us.
Ron was about my height, but he outweighed me by seventy pounds. He
looked like an oversized Raggedy Andy doll. Or, maybe a guy who ate
an oversized Raggedy Andy doll.

“Don’t come near us!” Lena grabbed my
arm.

“Who is this guy?” Ron said, and ignored
Lena to point at me with his chin. Uh-oh. In fact, he walked right
up to my face. I tried to size up the reach of his arms and legs,
compared to mine, so I would know whose punch and kick would reach
first. It wasn’t always all about technique or the size of the man,
but the length of his limbs that also mattered.

I said, “I’m going to take her home.” I was
unusually calm and in control. Deep breaths. I could feel myself
flustering. I didn’t like guys coming up to my face and pointing at
me with their chins. Big mistake on his part to assume that my
surfer looks meant that I was a nice guy. I wasn’t.

“Who the hell are you?” Ron asked. He
stepped closer to me. I could smell alcohol on his breath.

“Just go back inside,” I said to Ron. “Go
back to your party. Chill.” I took a step back to appear less
confrontational.

“And what if I don’t want to go back to my
party? What if I am not in a chill mood?” Ron took another step
toward me. A bigger step. An extraordinarily stupid step.

I looked at this guy. I would get kicked out
of Mixed Martial Arts for even entertaining a thought to fight a
guy who was this out of shape. And this drunk. I resolved not to
throw the first punch or kick. It was the only way to protect my
job, which I was more worried about protecting than my physical
ass.

The guy let loose a burp, a very stinky
roaring mega-belch that was permeated with imported beer fumes.
Sheesh! The hops didn’t smell so good when they were already
getting processed in a human being.

One problem: It was hard not to entertain
punching a punkface like this into a pulp when you love to fight.
And then taunted you by belching in your face and taking a fight
stance, as piss poor as it was. To a professional like me, he was
already toast. But, I again resolved not to throw the first blow.
In a street fight, you never do that. Only in the ring. And then,
only sometimes.

I felt my heart rate increase. Blood
throbbed in my temples as my inner beast unfurled its fangs in
wait. My left hand, my free hand, opened and closed. It itched to
make a fist. It itched to connect with this douchebag’s speckled
face.

“I asked you a question, Blondie.” And then
he growled, “What if I don’t want to go back to my party?”

“Look, Spanky,” I said, taking a deep
breath. “I’m sure there’s a whole plethora of girls inside just
begging for you to slip them a roofie. Why don’t you just let us
get out of here and then you can go back to raping and
pillaging.”

“Raping and pillaging? Oh, you’re funny,
back street boy. You’re not going anywhere. I took Lena to this
party. If anyone’s taking her home, it’s going to be me.”

“I don’t see that happening,” I said. The
throbbing in my temple increased. Adrenaline was flooding my
bloodstream. “You seemed to have lost that privilege the second you
and your frat buddies decided to commit a federal crime.”

“The last time I checked, it wasn’t a crime
when a girl was asking for it.”

“So, that’s why her hair is messed up and
she has a ripped dress.” I didn’t know if she had ripped her dress
on the fall from the upstairs window, or if he had done it, but Ron
answered my concerns soon enough.

“What can I say? I guess the bitch likes it
rough.”

“You’re a fucking pig, Ron!” Lena yelled
out.

“Look, whore, you know you wanted it, and
you got scared once you saw how fat my cock was.”

My stomach turned. I stepped toward Ron.
“Get the fuck out of here, you fat piece of shit.”

“And what if I don’t?” As he spoke, spittle
flew from his mouth and hit my cheeks. I hate that. When someone
spits on me, I usually lose my resolve not to beat the shit out of
him.

I said, “Then this night will not end well
for you.”

“Are you threatening me?” Ron bellowed.

By this time, twenty party celebrants in
matching embroidered Gamma Phi Beta polo shirts with little
alligator logos and tan Docker slacks had now made their way
outside to see what the commotion was about. Among them were four
or five of Ron’s frat buddies. His friends were of all shapes and
sizes, none of them remotely intimidating. They walked over to us,
eager to get in on the fun.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” one guy chanted. Oh
shit, but fighting was fun. Sometimes too much fun. Others egged on
Ron by joining in the chant.

Anyway, now they stood next to him in a
display of solidarity. Ron shouted to them, “This guy thinks he’s
going to kick my ass.”

Ron had no idea what he was up against,
obviously. If he had any street smarts, he would take in how I was
holding myself. How I was prepared, at a moment’s notice to strike,
and strike hard. Any fighter worth his salt knew immediately what
he was up against, by the way his opponent held himself. Ron wasn’t
a fighter. He wasn’t anything.

And he’s not worth getting suspended
over.

I took in a lot of air. I had sized up my
opponent and knew immediately what I was up against. Ron was doughy
and out-of-shape. I could knock him out in seconds. His friends, on
the other hand, might cause some problems if they decided to make
this a group affair. I didn’t shy away from group affairs. I shied
away, in fact, from very little.

I looked at his friends. Some looked cocky.
Some looked confused. Most looked drunk. One or two of them were
yelling for Ron to kick my ass. My best guess was that his friends
were probably not going to jump, that they were going to allow this
to be a fair fight, so I put all my attention on Ron.