The Lord of Near and Nigh: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 2) (31 page)

“Didn’t ask what you think, did I, darlin’?”
 

The girl crosses her arms and pouts.
 

Sorry begins coughing from the back of the van. A horrible, choked sputtering cough.

The man tenses. “How many you got back there?” he asks me.

“Five,” I say.
 

“Shoot ‘em, daddy! Use the big guns. Light ‘em up!”

The man sighs. “Brandy, will you
please
shut the fuck up?”

“Yeah, Brandy. Shut the fuck up,” Nash growls.

Brandy steps forward and smacks Nash hard across the cheek.

“Ouch! Jesus fucking hell, Brandy—”

I can’t help myself.
 

I burst into loud, half-fucking-crazed laughter.
 

Funny thing is the dude holding the shotgun to my head laughs along with me. I hear him laughing and decide to risk a look. He’s a lumpy red-headed motherfucker with freckles and pale eyes and a quivering double chin. He can’t be more than mid-thirties. He’s wearing army fatigues and holding the shotgun in a way that says he knows how to use it. Even worse, he doesn’t seem like one of those guys that’s only tough when he’s holding a gun.
 

I don’t sense a lick of fear in him.
 

Which means he’s batshit insane.

Then I see a scar just like the one his daughter has. Running along his jaw. Also barely healed.
 

“Okay,” I say once our laughter dies down. “How’s this gunna end…uh…what should I call you?”

“Mr. Sir,” the redheaded guy spits.

“Mr. Sir?”

“Damn straight.”

“Okay. All right. So what now, Mr. Sir?”

The guy fingers the shotgun trigger. “First thing is…I need to see you bleed red.”

Nash fires me a look.

“Red? Of course I bleed red. What the fuck you—”

Mr. Sir tosses a pair of handcuffs on my lap and tells me to put them on. I do, and then he says, “You packin’?”

I shake my head no.

“Who is?”

“Two in back.”

Mr. Sir nods, licks his lips. “All right then. You and the driver come on out. Real slow. The rest stay inside. Anyone hops out I’ll take my sweet’s advice and light ‘em up.”

That’s fucking progress,
I think as the dude steps away from the van and I pop open the door.

“Uh, did he just call his daughter
sweets
?” Trish says from the back.

“Real slow,” Mr. Sir tells me.

I hold up my cuffed wrists as if to say: what? you worried?
 

Mia calls me an asshole as I slide out.
 

Fucking snake better keep a lid on it.
 

Nash strolls around the front of the van, grinning so wide for a moment I think he’s going animal. Fucking dude lives for this shit. He stops beside me. Cracks his knuckles. Brandy comes up from behind and swats him on the ass.
 

“Fucking crazy bitches,” Nash says under his breath.

“They’re like flies to your honey,” I say, counting at least a dozen high-calibre assault rifles aimed at us. “Just keep it inside, yeah?”

Mr. Sir yells at his crew: “All right! We got some fresh meat here! Who’s turn to initiate?”

“Initiate?” Nash says. “That can’t be fucking good.”

A young boy, maybe ten or twelve, walks into the middle of the parking lot beside the gas station. His lowered eyes are wide with fear and his hands are clenched at his waist and I know he’s shivering and he hasn’t even looked directly at us yet.
 

“All right, what’s your name, son?”

“Brayden,” the boy whispers.

“What’s that?” the redheaded guy says, leaning down and cupping his hand to his ear.

“Brayden,” the boy repeats, only a little louder.
 

My dying brother coughs and gasps in the van. The sound makes my wolf thrash against me, and suddenly I’m growling quietly. The redheaded prick doesn’t hear it, but the boy named Brayden jerks his head up, stares at me, shakes his head no and takes a quick step backward.

“Nice playin’ it cool, Prez,” Nash whispers.

Mr. Sir glares at Brayden. “What’s a matter, boy? You spooked?”

“He’s…he’s…” Brayden stammers.

“Huh-huh,” I cough, pretending to clear my throat.

Mr. Sir stares at me. Pale blue eyes. Fearless as an inbred imbecile.
 

“You hear somethin’, son?” he asks the boy. “You get a bad feelin’ off these two?”

The boy nods.

“Me too. What’d you hear?”

“A…growl. From
him
.” The boy points to me.

“Fucking dust. I was clearing my throat—”

“Shut up!” Mr. Sir yells, raising the rifle at me again.

Maybe we should have just gone full fucking animal on these hillbilly pricks. But it’s too late now—

Mr. Sir reaches back to his belt and draws out a long hunting knife.

Nash whistles.
 

“The boy gunna cut you both,” Mr. Sir says to me and Nash. “In the face. You hear? Not enough to kill you. But you has to bleed.”

“But I
love
my face,” Nash whines.
 

“It
is
a pretty face,” Brandy purrs.
 

Mr. Sir hands Brayden the hunting knife.
 

“C’mon!” I say. “Look! The boy’s about to piss himself—”

“I am not,” Brayden says, defensive.
 

Fuck.

“Now. You see black blood, son, you don’t bother trying to cut his throat. You just step away and let me and the boys handle ‘em, yeah?”

Brayden nods.

The hillbilly turns to me. “Get on your fucking knees so the boy can cut you.”

Right. So this plan is
not
working. “I don’t kneel,” I say.

“What?”

“I do not kneel. Ever. For anyone.”

Mr. Sir squeezes the shotgun. “You…how can you…I said fucking—”

“No. I won’t kneel.”

Brayden freezes. Looks at me, then at the redhead asshole.

“Sorry’s in there, Prez,” Nash whispers. “We need to get a fucking move-on.”

I meet Brayden’s eyes. He has a scar on his jaw like the others. It’s their Skin initiation. Thing is, the poor kid
is
about to piss himself. I’m not making it any easier on him. And Nash is right. I got other things to worry about than my fucking pride.
 

“Brayden?” I say. “I’m gunna reach in my pocket and drop my keys. Understand? Then I’m gunna bend down and pick them up. That’s when you come on over and cut my face. Understand?”
 

I try and keep my tone real cool and mellow-like, but fucking hell, I dunno. My patience is wearing thin. The boy looks about to faint.
 

“That cool?” I ask.

Brayden nods.

“That cool?” I ask Mr. Sir.

Asshole nods too. So okay, I pull out my keys. Drop them. Lean down. Wait. Tick-tock. No knife at my face. I look up. The kid hasn’t moved. “Brayden?” I say, “I’m really
trying
here, all right? Now come cut me, for the love of all fuck—”

Brayden shrieks, races forward, slices me clear across the cheek, stabs Nash in the leg, sprints screaming across the lot and vanishes behind the gas station.

“Jesus fuck!” I yell, clutching my cheek while blood spills between my fingers and Nash hops around on one leg, cradling the stab-wound.

“All right,” the redhead asshole says, nodding and licking his chapped lips. “You both bleed like real humans. Good.”

Except
not
good.
 

Because these are fucking scratches, and in five minutes we’ll be healed up and—

Something wails from within a metal shipping container in the middle of a dusty yard beside the gas station. I whirl, scent the air.
 

Yup. Stricken.
 

I have to fight to keep my fucking fangs where they belong.

“We bagged one,” Mr. Sir says proudly. “Blew its head half off. Chained it up and threw it in there. Fucking
monsters
.”

Brandy spits.

“Yeah,” I say. “Fucking demons, right?”
 

I lift my wrists out to show Mr. Sir the handcuffs.
 

He slowly lowers the shotgun and a skinhead-looking guy slides over and unlocks the cuffs off me and Nash. Brandy strolls up to Nash, drapes herself over him, begins kissing on his neck and chest, rubbing his crotch—

“Uh, dude?” I say.

Nash grabs Brandy’s ass, tugs her against his crotch.

A few of the guys bunkered down behind the barricades hoot and whistle.

“Let’s move, assholes!” Mia shrieks from the van’s passenger seat.

Mr. Sir laughs. “Girl got a real hate on for you.”

“You figure?”

“Shouldn’t let a woman disrespect you like that.”

“Mind your fucking business, Mr. Sir.”

The dude laughs and asks my name. I tell him it’s Aaron, and when he asks about the biker cuts I tell him about the Pureblood Predator MC. He calls the Death Riders over. There’s a few seconds of tension, then we’re all hey-bro-what-the-fuck and I find myself surrounded by a dozen asshole motherfuckers like it’s some sort of hillbilly pig-roast. They start nattering about the black-blooded monsters and the end of the world and how they got their own little hillbilly state up here in the hills and I’m trying real hard—
real
hard—to keep my animal from dropping fang and butchering the lot of them.

Self control, I remind myself, is the mark of a true leader.

“Uh…Prez?” Nash asks, nodding at Brandy. The girl’s rubbing all over him. Another second and she’ll have his cock out—
 

“What? You fucking kidding?”

Nash flicks a look back at the van. “Only take a minute.”

“Fucking
hell
,” I mutter. Then I say to the redhead asshole, “Hey. My boy here—”

“Don’t need daddy’s permission,” Brandy says. “This ass gets tapped when
I
say.”

Mr. Sir shrugs.
 

“So you’re crew gunna stick around?” Mr. Sir asks when they’re gone. “Could use some more able-bodied.”
 

“Nah,” I say. “We gotta roll.”

We’ve only been here—what? Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? But it feels like years and all I can think about is my brother bleeding out in that fucking sweltering van—

Mr. Sir’s eyes narrow. “About that fuel you need. How you gunna pay?”

“What, no MC discount? We bleed red, remember?”

Which reminds me I’m healing up, so I bend down like I’m fucking with the buckles on my boots and dig my fingers into the cut on my cheek to open it back up.
 

Mr. Sir gives me a blank smile. “Nope. Would trade fuel for that snarky bitch you got, though.”

“Mia? You’d be doing me two fucking favors.”

“Fine. Then it’s settled? A full tank for the lippy bitch Mia?”

Well, I’m not proud to say I consider it for a second. That’s how twitchy and pent-up I’m feeling. Then I take a breath and remind myself Mia’s in my MC. Part of my crew. My responsibility. Even if she is a
royal
pain in the ass. So instead I say: “You know how to kill ‘em?”
 

“What?”

“The black blooded devils?”

Mr. Sir glances at the Death Riders MC. “Ain’t tried too hard.”

“But you tried.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell you what. I show you how to kill ‘em. You give us a tank of gas and let us on our way.”

Mr. Sir walks a few yards away and confers with his crew. I pace in a half circle, kick at a few rocks. Fucking hurry up, you inbred sacks of shit. Brandy’s wails of delight rise out over the dusty parking lot. Nash is hitting that ass good.
 

Suddenly I want to get fucked up. Like blasted out of my mind. For a week. All this bullshit…and my brother? Holy hell my
brother
? Nothing’s sunk in yet. The betrayal. That Sorry might die. Oh yeah…and fucking Lily? What am I gunna do about
her
? Fuck it. I’m envious of Nash. Dude can do pretty much whatever he wants. Doesn’t have to worry about shit. Bang a hillbilly whore? Sure, no problem! Have at! I want to fill a fucking swimming pool full of tequila. Burrow through a mountain of blow. Just fucking launch on the most epic of benders—
 

Mr. Sir stomps over and says, “All right. Show us.”

I laugh. “Fuck that. Fill the van. Let us through the roadblock. I’ll stay behind and kill the fucking demon. Then I walk on out. Good?”

Mr. Sir studies me for a long while. Maybe not such a dumb prick after all. Then he nods and yells for someone to fill up the van. Nash staggers out from behind a pile of rusted oil drums. Grins at me. I shake my fucking head.

“That was quick,” I yell while Brandy walks all unsteady from around the oil drums, buttoning her shirt.
 

“Fuck yeah. This is going
way
better than expected,” Nash says once he’s at my side.

“You stink like hillbilly snatch.”

“Better than no snatch. Fucking long-ass dry spell I’ve been having. Like, four whole days. Bitches get all skittish during armageddon. Who knew?”

“Day’s gunna get even better.” I nod to the van and tell him to drive it up the highway a few miles once it’s filled up and to make sure Lily and Trish stay inside with Sorry.

“What about you, Prez?”

I slap my bro on the back. “Me? I got this shit on lockdown.”

***

Mr. Sir flings open the metal storage container. There’s a screeching wail, the kind a trapped and maimed animal makes when its gone right the fuck out of its mind.
 

I step up and peer inside. Blink against the gloom.
 

The wailing stops.

The stink of waste and infected flesh wafts out of the container.

“Pureblood,” something inside barks. “Come here, Pureblood. Come on inside.”

Mr. Sir gives me an odd look. I check the road, see the van has cleared the roadblock and is tearing the fuck out of here. So in other words: it’s showtime.
 

“Ugly bastard,” I say to Mr. Sir.

“Pureblood!”

“Why’s it callin’ you that?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Pureblood!”

“Gunna need a couple things,” I tell Mr. Sir.