Blood and Fire

  Blood and Fire

  By

  Carrie Clevenger

  and

  Nerine Dorman

  ©2011

  Blood and Fire

  Carrie Clevenger and Nerine Dorman

  Published January 2012 by

  Dark Continents Publishing

  www.darkcontinents.com

  Copyright ©2012 Clevenger and Dorman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book contains a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s creation or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The Nook 'lend' feature is authorized by the publisher, and the Kindle 'share' feature is also authorized by the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  Xan

  Vampires should never have to make sandwiches. My first instinct? Whine about it, but that wouldn’t seem fitting for a six-foot-five bass player. More than likely Charlie, the owner and resident slave-driver, would find it fucking funny. He was a real cool older brother with a penchant for wearing a fedora and slacks with suspenders. His latest idea for business at Pale Rider was to offer cold sandwiches on Friday and Saturday, which meant somebody had to make them. I figured his girl Linda came up with the idea of serving food in a bar. Like the peanuts and chips weren’t enough. Food was food.

  “When you done with those, make sure the coolers are filled with ice.” Charlie looked over the sandwiches I’d already wrapped before putting little round, blue price stickers on them. Darrell burst in to the kitchen and halted mid-step. He was a big boy from Texas who could shred a riff on lead guitar like nobody’s business.

  He made a show of stroking his braided goatee. “Do I smell…egg salad?”

  “Touch a sandwich, lose a hand, asshole.” I waved the knife at him for emphasis.

  “You’re gonna make somebody a good little wife someday.” He walked on by, his laughter echoing in the hallway leading to the barroom. I sighed and finished the last three sandwiches uninterrupted. Even Charlie seemed satisfied I did a decent job.

  It wasn’t much, working there, but it gave me a place to stay and let me usually do whatever I wanted. That and free whiskey—a definite perk. In fact, free booze was about as attractive to me as a 401K retirement fund to a human. There was a peace of mind in the bottom of a bottle. It quieted the vampire side of me and diluted the memories of a life lost. I didn’t venture out much anyway, and was usually found roosting slumped at my usual dark table in the corner with the scarred top like a proper bloodsucker, or in my room. To keep myself busy, I played bass in Crooked Fang, a cover band there at Pale Rider.

  Once I stashed the sandwiches in the antiquated fridge Charlie just couldn’t stand to replace, I cleaned the area up and headed out to the barroom for the ice bucket. The ice machine was in the stockroom with extra beer coasters, napkins and bagged snacks. It took about ten trips to fill up both beer coolers behind the bar. By that time, Bea walked in to start her shift. Her hair was dyed cotton candy pink and was done up in two pigtails.

  “Did Josh show up yet? He said he was going to stop by the gas station for a fill-up.” She stood there looking at me, twirling her hair. Even close to thirty, she looked young. Had she not been my drummer’s wife, well…

  “Do I look like his keeper?” I stuck my tongue out at her.

  She smiled and gave me a playful punch on the arm, tiny thing that she was. Still, we got along really well. We picked on each other like kids in school. “Bullshit, I know you two cover for each other enough.”

  I wasn’t a typical vampire either, really. I didn’t let on to those people that I was a vampire. I wasn’t all growly and inhuman, but I definitely wasn’t the cuddly kind either. I just was Xan Marcelles, asshole bassist and regular dude. No intentional bad-assery. I smoked and drank like many red-blooded American males, only my blood ran cold.

  Bea tilted her head to look at me. “So, have you seen him or not?”

  “Maybe you need to keep a better leash on your husband.” I grinned. “Nope, he hasn’t shown yet. It’s still early. Give him time.”

  She rolled her eyes and plunked her purse on the shelf under the cash register. “Probably playing on that pinball machine again.”

  I snorted and pulled out my pack for a cigarette. Of course she had to help herself to one too. Not like I could turn her down when she looked at me like a lost puppy.

  “When did you plan on bringing your own smokes to work, Bea?” I offered my lit Zippo and she leaned in to catch the flame with the tip of her cigarette.

  “Oh, I brought some. They’re just way over there.” She waved her hand back in the general direction of her purse.

  I sighed and rubbed my face. “I’m going to see if Josh has showed up yet. Maybe we can get set up early. I don’t want to get Serv up until closer to show time.”

  “Why does he sleep all day anyway? Must be a rock star thing.” She giggled and wandered over to the far end of the bar where one of her regulars waited for a drink.

  Serv slept all day for more than a few reasons. Also a vampire, he was way newer than me, a few years compared to a little over twenty-five years in. I just didn’t sleep much at all, which was totally to Charlie’s liking. He could always find shit for me to do.

  I slipped outside through the front door before Charlie came up with any other unpleasant chores. A couple of young boys sat on the little bench out there, apparently waiting for their parents. They both played handheld video games. Combating theme music cut the cooling Colorado air.

  I spotted Josh getting out of his car as the automatic lot lights came on and met him halfway, hands on my hips. “Get sidetracked? Your woman is looking for you.”

  He cringed and ran a hand through his dark auburn hair. “I might’ve gotten caught up in a couple of games when I went in to pay for my gas.”

  “That’s why Margaret keeps those pinball machines there. She knows she’ll at least sell a lot of pop. Come on inside. I’ll wake up Serv after we get set up for tonight.”

  We fell into bandchatter as we went back up the stairs, but the loud jukebox killed it with another one of those country tunes that couldn’t decide if it really wanted to be rock or not. Josh broke away to greet his wife behind the bar while I thumped upstairs to rouse the dead. Fuck him. He could get up now.

  Serv answered his door on my second try. His hair was all fucked up and a couple days’ worth of face-fuzz had sprouted. “Dude, you realize it’s late, right?”

  “Mrrf,” he grumbled and slammed the door in my face. I knew the routine. He’d be down to greet his adoring public eventually, preened to perfection. Serv never missed a chance to be admired. It fed his already oversized “I’m-the-singer” ego.

  I joined Darrell and Josh up on stage to get shit ready to play within the hour. Darrell opened a case at his feet. He’d bought a new Gibson. It was a pretty thing—red, with pickups in both the bridge and the neck. I know it had cost him quite a bit but unlike me, he had a part-time job delivering pizzas on every night except weekends. He was the kind of guy that saved for months to buy the perfect axe.

  Serv came down the stairs just as we finished. “Hey man, sorry.” His tone didn’t match his words.

  “It’s all good, Serv. Your shit’s ready for you. You can go.” I shooed him with my hands. �
�Mingle.”

  The place was about half-full by that time. People favored the small private tables over the large benches, but eventually would fill those too. Friday nights were usually our best nights. I guess I did okay with the sandwiches, because people were munching on them like crazy. The bar was so busy, Charlie was backing Bea up. Someone fed the jukebox again, and Brian Johnson’s screech split the air with Back in Black. The atmosphere changed, charging with anticipation, leaving it up to us to give these people satisfaction. I shuffled through the throngs of chatty folks to slip behind the bar, wanting to get my booze and chill out for a little while before we hit stage, but was stopped by a pair of blondes.

  “Hi,” they said in stereo with bleached-white smiles. The one on the left had a massive pair of—

  “Take these girls’ order, boy.” Charlie paused with a handful of Bud Lights dangling by their necks between his fingers, before he popped the tops off with expert speed. He distributed them to the guys at the far end of the bar. I flashed my nicest grin at the blondes, the kind without fang.

  “Pick your poison.” I gestured to the rows of liquor behind me.

  “I’ll take a shot of Maker’s Mark and lemon water.”

  “I’ll have what she’s having.” The blonde on the left favored me with a sexy dip of her chin and thrust out her chest. “We wouldn’t be opposed to having a bartender chaser.” They both had blue eyes. I licked the back of a fang and marked the one on the left as a possibility for later.

  After I served them their drinks and was rewarded with a double shot of cleavage, I headed up to the private roof deck to have a smoke, drink my whiskey and get in the zone to perform. This was the reason I saw a procession of three identical black SUVs come up the rough road from the state highway and pull into the lot. They parked in a line and a litter of suited dudes got out that could’ve been extras in Men in Black. I ground my smoke out in the ashtray and returned downstairs to find out what the hell was going on. This was Pinecliffe, Colorado, and Pale Rider was a tavern off the beaten path, but worth it for the friendly local atmosphere and cheap beer. We didn’t have slick types like these goons coming out to the sticks to have a drink and shoot pool.

  I stopped at the foot of the stairs, watching them through the bar. They talked fast and low, like they were from the city, business-like. A flash of a badge. The sound of my name reached my ears and I froze. Me? What the fuck did they want with me? I had a goddamn show to do. I pasted on a smile and closed the distance to where three suits stood discussing my whereabouts with Charlie. His relief at my approach was apparent and he scraped the fedora off his skull to scratch like he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do, then nodded once in my direction. “There’s the man you’re looking for.”

  His gaze held a glint of suspicion, but then again it wasn’t the first time I’d tangled with the law. The problem was, this time I couldn’t think of a single thing of which I hadn’t already been exonerated. The three men turned as one to follow his line of sight.

  “Mr. Marcelles?” Credentials were jammed under my nose and I dragged my eyeballs over three very nasty letters to belong to somebody looking for you: FBI.

  Great. I was caught up in the fucking X-Files. Maybe they’d finally figured out I was really a vampire after all.

  “I’m Agent Clarkson and these are my associates. We’d like to request you come with us.” The dude had a goatee so neatly trimmed it looked plastic. Gray hairs peppered the black. His eyes were dark, unreadable—a man used to secrets. I glanced at his polished shoes then at my scuffed boots and gave a casual shrug.

  “What’s this about?” I pressed my tongue behind my right fang and resisted the urge to bolt. Police were bad enough. They had jails. Feds? They had prisons you disappeared into, hangars with secret alien ships and warehouses of seized illegal goods. I couldn’t fuck around with the Feds. I damn sure couldn’t run from them, either.

  “We’d prefer to discuss that in a more secure location.”

  “How secure?”

  “Mr. Marcelles, please come with us.” Clarkson looked back to his buddies and they stiffened their postures. They were pretty much set on dragging my ass out of there if they had to. I blinked and gave them a nod.

  “Should I bring anything?”

  “That won’t be necessary. This shouldn’t take long, provided all goes well.” Provided all goes well—not exactly the reassurance I was digging for. I’d miss the show. Crooked Fang couldn’t play without me, but these fuckers weren’t giving me a choice.

  I turned to Charlie. “Would you tell the guys?” Serv, Josh and Darrell would freak out if they knew I was taken in by the Feds. I couldn’t see any of them. They were probably out back, dicking around. Josh was still there, I knew that much. Bea called the night’s shot special and two-dollar wells. The sudden loudspeaker interruption almost made me jump out of my skin.

  “After you.” Clarkson jerked his head in the direction of the door and the rest of the suits filed in behind us. There were a few more than three. More like six—no doubt all packing weapons powerful enough to drop a LSD-laced lunatic in his tracks. I was ushered outside and into one of the black SUVs. It wasn’t until after the door shut that I noticed the lack of handles on the inside. A wire cage separated the back seats from the front, like in the old cop movies.

  The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Make sure you buckle up.”

  The truck smelled like cheap American leather and fear. Odd that they would be scared of me.

  My vampire special talent had always been smell, like I was a dog or something. Sure, I was stronger than more than a few dudes put together, but being immortal kind of raised expectations. Too bad I wasn’t any good at reading minds. It would’ve been useful right about then.

  Since I couldn’t see much outside the heavily tinted glass, I stared out through the windshield. I wanted to ask why I was being transported like a prisoner, but I kept my mouth shut. Nobody said anything. The radio droned some lame-ass love song but I didn’t recognize it. I laid my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.

  The truck came to a stop outside a guarded post. The driver waved a card over a stand-alone reader and the gate rumbled open. Just beyond came the telltale whine of a helicopter powering up. The SUV came to a stop.

  I leaned forward as far as my seatbelt would allow. “What the hell is this, man?”

  “Patience, Mr. Marcelles.”

  “Patience my ass, you said this wouldn’t take long.”

  The passenger got out and opened my door. Torn between kicking him in the teeth and being a good boy, I let reason win one more time. He was another dark-haired man, with a thin moustache. He also didn’t look American. Neither did the driver, to be honest. He was hiding something in his hand.

  “What’s that in your—”

  Other agents came from behind to take hold of me so the driver could jab a needle into my arm, thumb on the plunger. Cold slid through my veins and the world went fuzzy.

  “Prepare it for transport.” It? The driver’s voice sounded far away. My knees buckled but I was dragged toward the helicopter, where they put handcuffs on my wrists. I tried to talk but it came out unintelligible, my tongue feeling way too big for my mouth.

  “It’s not out yet, sir.”

  “It’s disoriented enough.”

  Whatever trouble I was in, it looked to be big. Since when did the FBI drug people? It wasn’t like I was giving them any trouble. Alarm bells rang in my brain, I was drooling and my head lolled like it was attached to a broken stem. Their conversation seemed a mile away. My stomach lurched as the helicopter lifted off the ground. Whatever they’d injected me with finally won. I blacked out.

  The landing woke me, but I didn’t open my eyes. It seemed best to let them think I was out still. The rotating blades slowed as the engine powered down. The door opened and hands grabbed hold of me to pull me out. These weren’t FBI agents. Whatever the fuck they were up to wasn’t good for me. My h
ands were uncuffed so I could be propped between two men again. I peeked through half-closed eyelids to get an idea of where I was.

  A sprawling estate. Fancy lighting. White fences. The smell of horses. The grass beneath my feet was crisp and perfectly trimmed. Someone’d brought out a wheelchair, one of those special mental patient ones, with straps and buckles intended to keep my ass in it. I opened my eyes wide and raised my head, surprising my captors by wrestling free from their grasp to get as far away as far as I could.

  “It’s awake! Capture the beast!”

  Men shouted behind me as I broke into a run, my feet cushioned by golf course-style grass. Springy. Shots rang out and bullets whizzed past my ears. The property wall was just ahead of me. To my right, a paddock and a huge stable. The smell of horse shit was strong.

  Pain blossomed in my back as one bullet hit home, then another. I growled but kept going, until another shot took out my knee and sent me flailing face-first to the ground. With gritted teeth I tried to get back up but I’d received enough damage to make it impossible, at least for a few minutes or more. I rolled over on my back and spat out grass.

  They caught up to me, shining flashlights and pointed rifles at my skull. I groaned and stayed prone, fully feeling the effects of losing so much blood at once.

  I was lifted up between a couple of guys, unable to do a thing about it. The lack of blood made me weak and woozy. It wouldn’t be long before that really desperate hunger kicked in. The world was a messy blur, stripes of lights streaking blue and white. Dots of gold and the scent of fresh-cut turf tickled my senses. More voices sounded around me. They were dragging me back and I struggled against them, I felt chains slide over my skin. Heavy links, and the click of a lock. I was secured in the chair with the buckled straps. Warm breath brushed in front of my face and I felt the too-tight pull of my blood-starved veins. Their pulses were bass drums. I wanted to ask what was going on, but only groaned—barely louder than a whisper. I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. Fatigue tugged at the ends of my desire to remain awake. I lost the battle and fell into unconsciousness.