First of all, do you have a second knife?”
Mitch extended his hand, exposing the tip of a barely used, Agency-issue blade strapped to the inside of his wrist under his sleeve. “Got a couple of bullet dispensers though, including—” he patted his pocket “—my baby Beretta and a bad boy I’m dying to use in the field.”
“Nope. No heat, only silvies. Here, take one of mine.” Jackson slipped him a silver alloy stiletto—one of his backup blades, not his good one. No one touched his dragon blade. “And don’t use it inside the club. One wrong slip under a rib and they’ll charcoal in front of all these witnesses.”
Mitch raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you scrub them if that happens? Do a mind wipe?”
“I’m good, but I ain’t that good.”
Even newly energized, Jackson wasn’t able to do the amount of head-fucking it’d take to wipe the memories of all the club goers. It’d take four or five Guardians at least. Maybe down in one of the UV-intense regions, where human blood and energy tended to make vampires more aggressive and their skills more pronounced, but not in Seattle, where almost every human host was vitamin-D deficient. Mitch hadn’t been working in the field all that long and he’d recently spent time in Australia with Dom, so he’d made the assumption that things worked the same here. Not true.
Besides, this wasn’t that kind of operation. Although he had to admit, it would be fun in a Wild West shoot-’em-up sort of way.
“If you do have to fork one, go low in the belly or give ‘em a kidney shot from behind. Just don’t nick a heart. We’ll finish them in the alley.”
They quickly worked out a plan.
“Okay, let’s rock,” Jackson said.
Mitch melted into the crowd and Jackson eased around the perimeter of the dance floor toward an exit at the back, never dropping his eyes from the Darkblood pair. He palmed his knife, flicked open the blade with a click and waited in the shadows near the door. Mitch approached the table from the other side and sidled up behind the two DBs. They stiffened. Several long seconds later, they began to shuffle toward Jackson, obviously being herded at the points of Mitch’s knives and his persuasive way with words.
Jackson moved deeper into the shadows, trying simply to blend into the darkness, not meld with it. There were too many potential human witnesses around for him to just disappear. But when he stepped backward, he bumped into a young mixed couple making out—a human female wearing a skimpy sequined halter top and thigh-high boots, and a young male vampire in a letterman’s jacket.
Jesus, the kid didn’t look nearly old enough for the Thirst to have started. But then how was he to tell? At over a century old, he thought any born vampire under the age of thirty looked like a child.
Jackson gave the youthling a two-fingered I’m-watching-you gesture followed by a turn-around-and-get-the-hell-out-of-here look. Both the human and vampire complied.
The bass from a speaker pounded so loudly in his ears he wasn’t sure what was the beating of his heart and what was music. He flexed his empty hand. Nothing like a good altercation to sand off the dark, rough edges. Today, he woke up feeling more out of sorts than normal. It had to be the blood of those two women last night. First, the sun-rich blood of the woman in the private salon last night, then Arianna.
Mitch escorted the Darkbloods into the hallway, calmly, quietly.
Niiice. If they could wrap this up quickly, he could go back in and hang out.
The two DBs moved in unison, their black coats swirling around their ankles. Did these losers think a simple pickup awaited them in the alley? That was only for routine reverts, vampires who needed a little reminder about the laws of their kind. Not members of the Darkblood Alliance who didn’t abide by Council law, who thought it went against the laws of nature not to feed from and kill humans.
No, guys like these two got the special treatment.
The kind that involved a slip of a special blade and some ashes.
But just as Mitch and his two new BFFs approached, all hell broke loose out on the dance floor behind them. Shouting erupted above the music and Jackson heard the sound of breaking glass. A few chairs went flying.
A fight, probably in the cage line—people hated waiting their turn to go on display.
The screech of the DJ’s record blasted like squealing tires through the speakers. That was when Mitch glanced away for a split second. It was the only invitation the DBs needed.
Mitch hit the ground, sputtering from an elbow to the chest, and the two charged the exit, heading straight for Jackson. They were fast, probably jacked up on Sweet. Jackson shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to spring.
Yeah, bitches, bring it on.
Light glittered off something in his peripheral view. Damn. The human female. Those complicated things. He flattened himself against the wall and let the DBs pass him.
One glance at his partner coughing on all fours confirmed the guy just had the wind knocked out of him.
“Your silvie,” Mitch managed to say.
What? Darkbloods had his blade? “Goddamn it.”
Jackson ran out after the bastards into the alley behind the club. He wasn’t about to let them get away, otherwise they’d be back to prey on another unsuspecting human some other night. DBs were always on the prowl for people with the extremely rare sweetblood. Although their two human male targets inside the club weren’t sweetbloods—Jackson would’ve been able to smell that—chances were, one or both of them had a fairly uncommon blood type. One that the DBs were after.
Besides, they had his knife. No one messed with his knives.
In just a few strides, he got to the short one first. With a roundhouse kick, Jackson’s boot landed squarely on the side of the guy’s head, snapping his wraparound sunglasses and collapsing him to the ground. A well-placed shove, a little hitch with his blade, and the DB was already charcoaling.
One down, one to go. Jackson retrieved his weapon from the body.
The other one made it almost to the street by the time Jackson caught up with him next to a Dumpster. He jumped onto the guy’s back and clamped him in a choke hold. Was this the one with his knife? He didn’t care if the guy had a Darkblood blade; they were poorly made and fairly ineffective. But a nick from Jackson’s own blade would be an entirely different story.
The fucker spun around, clutching at Jackson’s biceps, but he didn’t succeed in loosening them. Damn, he was strong, though. Much stronger than the other one. Probably from the Sweet. Jackson hitched his arms tighter and the guy choked. As with any vampire who lived on an all-blood diet, the air from his lungs reeked, and Jackson tried to keep his head turned away as much as possible. DBs used the stench as a calling card of sorts. If you were looking for a little action, you knew you could score a hit from the guys who smelled like a Texas meat locker with a faulty refrigeration unit.
Being this close, Jackson would need a serious shower after this was over. The DB continued to struggle, but when that didn’t work, he fell to the pavement with Jackson’s arm still firmly wrapped around his neck.
“Take it down if you can’t handle it on your feet,” Jackson said mockingly through clenched teeth. What a fool.
Thanks to his black belt in Brazilian jujitsu, Jackson preferred the ground and pound, anyway. At the first opportunity, he wrapped his legs viselike around the guy’s torso, locked his ankles in place and squeezed. The loser groaned loudly. Like a boa constrictor taking advantage of every exhale, Jackson’s thighs compressed him farther.
With a flick of his wrist, Jackson positioned the tip of his knife on a precise spot between the guy’s ribs—he could find it with his eyes closed.
Just as he was about to finish the job, he saw the flash of a blade and felt the sharp sting