And while working for vamps is never smart, Leo’s money was too much of a lure to do anything else just now. I did the little jacket tug again and felt everything fall into place, which was what should happen when a jacket cost nearly five hundred bucks. Way too much for a jacket, but it wasn’t my money, it was Leo’s. I was expected to look good. It was part of my job description. I smeared on bright red lipstick and dropped it into the same pocket as the official cell phone.
Satisfied, I looked up and met Tory’s gaze. He was staring at me, a singularly acute and piercing look. Warmth rose up my neck. I had, effectively, just gotten dressed in front of him. How stupid was that? “Your car is out front of the airport,” he said. “The driver will have a sign in the window that says ‘JY.’”
First a Learjet, now a chauffeur. This felt downright weird. My life was not . . . normal. Not anymore. “I’ll be back before dawn,” I said, and was surprised when my voice sounded professionally polite and not schoolgirl-silly.
I slung the tote with the blood-collection vials over a shoulder and passed Tory on the way out, looking down on his scalp and curly, deep-chestnut-colored hair. He was average height, but in the boots, I stood six-three, bringing my boobs about even with his face. Right. Smothering a sigh, I took in the small airport, or what I could make out from the top of the ramp. The sun had been setting when we took off from New Orleans, and it was only a bit later now than then, with the time changes.
I clattered down the steel steps and into the dusk. My boots made so much noise I missed the sound of cloth moving on cloth, but the scent caught me as I stepped onto the tarmac.
Blood-human-vampire, Beast thought. Guns. Upwind.
To my left.
I drew on Beast-speed and pulled the vamp-killer. Stepped right. Caught a glimpse of a shadow in my path. I smelled the gun oil and the fear-stink. I cut out right, hard. Impact jarred up my arm. A grunt. Reversed the knife and moved fast-fast-fast-forward. Whirled. Into the light. Blinding my attackers. Two. Only two. Blood smell meant I’d hurt the one I’d cut at. On his blood I smelled vamp and something chemical. But there was no time to examine the scent. They came at me together. Moving faster than human. Nearly vamp fast. Crap.
I hit out, feinting, and leaped up, torquing my hips, rotating my body in midair, midkick, at the uninjured one. My heel flew around, speeding up on the pivot point. Time slowed into the consistency of cold maple syrup, each moment containing a snapshot clarity. The bright light and black shadows danced beside and below me. My target moved in the split second before the kick landed. My boot hit his shoulder. Crap. I’d been aiming at his chin.
I landed on my other foot, whirled, ducked, and struck out behind me with the knife. My blade hit metal, the sound the dull clang of a gun, followed by an “oof” of pain. Both attackers were injured now. This one cursed. I managed to drop the stupid blood-collection bag and pummeled the closest guy with a series of left-handed punches and right-handed cuts. Blocked his strikes. Hit him again, this time knocking the gun away. It spun in the air. Into the dark. I bounced back, fighting for balance on the three-inch heels. I came away with his blood on my fist. A shot exploded in front of my face, the muzzle flash blinding me. The ricochet echoed in the concussion.
I blinked hard, trying to restore vision. The first guy I had cut came at me out of the retinal glare. Blinking, I dodged, cut, bent, and whirled away, biding my time until my vision came back, moving fast to make a harder target of myself.
Heart thudding, I heard clattering. Tory. Joining the fight. Idiot man.
One man turned toward him. Pulled another gun. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but Tory kicked, straight from the hip, his entire body in the move. A practiced, fluid motion that bent his body into a tight V and then snapped it open. I wondered what he studied.
The gun went flying. A shot rang out behind me, sounding dull beneath the concussive damage to my ears. Somebody had an extra gun. It sucks when the bad guys start thinking like me. Tory kicked again, but I smelled his blood. He’d been hit. Enough. I pulled a throwing knife and let it fly, the motion all one thing—pull blade, elbow back, wrist back, shoulder back, set up, throw, wrist snap, release. It took the shooter midchest, just left of his sternum. A lucky hit, between two ribs. The knife hilt thudded into his chest. Blood fountained out.
I whirled to the other guy. He was aiming at Tory, his extra gun in both hands in a Chapman stance. I dove forward. Grabbed his head. Our bodies impacted. I rode him down. Slammed his head into the tarmac.
He went limp. I didn’t. Not even for a split second of victory. I’d been taught better. I banged his head again. Hard. And rolled, kipping to my feet. Tory was dropping back onto the metal steps, his movement so slow it looked arthritic. The fight was over. I remembered to take a breath. My heart thudded into my chest like a jackhammer. Time snapped back to normal speed. I huffed for breath as I checked the two bad guys. One no longer breathing, one down and out.
“How bad?” I asked Tory.
“I’m gonna need some stitches.” He leaned left, hit the railing with his shoulder, and slid down. His blood flowed out, venous, not the fierce, arterial pumping of the man I’d just killed. But still, not good. Not good at all.
Chapter Two
Oh, Goody. I Wasn’t Gonna Get Sucked to Death