I clenched my hands and relaxed them. Once, and only once, I had brought Beast’s claws to my human hands. But I had no idea how I’d done it, and it didn’t happen now. Too far away for claws, I thought back to her. She hissed, but didn’t disagree, so I lay unmoving. Listening. Thinking. Beside the bed was another weapon I could use. It offered no precision, and was more along the lines of brute force, but it might give me time.
My intruder was stealthy, silent except for his breathing. Human blood-servant by his scent. Unfamiliar vamp-taint marked him, but it was old. He hadn’t fed from his master’s blood in days. He wore soft-soled shoes and unscented deodorant, no cologne. He hadn’t seen me yet, hadn’t killed me. I appreciated that in a man. But I smelled gun oil and lubricants. Yeah. He was armed. By the movement of air, I placed him. He was at the couch, looking over my weapons on the coffee table, paying special attention to my Benelli M4 shotgun. It was my baby, and was loaded for vamp with silver. If he tried to take it, I’d tackle him, weapon or no weapon. He moved to my clothes, which I’d left piled on a chair. I heard the faint movement of cloth and leather as he went through my pockets and inspected my boots. He needed to turn away before I could move. I felt more than saw when he noticed me. Adrenaline poured into the air, the scent sharp and spiky as cactus. Now or never. I drew Beast up into me, pulling her strength into my bloodstream.
In one smooth motion I slid my hands down, beneath me. Pushed up and off the bed, whirling. Grabbing the bust of the founding father, its weight and my momentum continuing my spiral. Seeing the man, turning, raising his arm. Faster than human. I released the statue with as much force as I could power through shoulders, arms, fingertips. Grunting softly with the effort. Slung my hair out of the way. Grabbed the Walther PK380. Had it in hand when the bust impacted his body.
His soft oof was surprise more than pain. But it was enough to screw up his aim. The suppressor on his weapon made little spats of sound like books dropping. Mine was much louder.
CHAPTER NINE
Wrong Century, White Boy
I dove hard toward the foot of the mattress and down. Firing twice more as I fell behind the bed. I hit hard, right elbow taking the impact. Fingers going numb on the gun. Rolling back toward the intruder. Scrambling to my knees. Smelling blood on the air. Not mine. Panting.
The doorjamb shattered, the door blown open by sheer muscle power. The twins were in the room. Their movements blood-servant fast. Weapons drawn. One twin held his weapon in a palm-supported grip. One twin with a handgun in each hand. They rushed the guy. He went down, cursing, writhing on the floor, my rounds making him bleed.
Brandon took my gun and set it on the table. Turned me around, looking for blood, evidence of injury. When he found none, he tossed me a robe. Brian dialed 911. Derek and Wrassler raced in to the room. So did hotel security. It was chaos. And soon after, local cops arrived, to drag me down to the law enforcement center. At least they let me dress first.
“So, you don’t know who the guy is, why he had no ID, why he was in your room, or why he was carrying illegal, with a mounted suppressor. You don’t know anything. This guy just slipped into your room and started shooting at you.”
“Pretty much,” I said. The Chief of Police, Billy Chandler, liked me even less than Grizzard did, but Billy’s dislike was just on principle, not because I’d gotten one of his men killed. Billy didn’t like anyone carrying concealed in his town, and he didn’t like tall motorcycle mamas with an arsenal and an attitude, guarding troublemaking fangheads in his town. Of course, he’d liked me no more when I’d just killed vamps for a living, and he liked vamps even less than he did me. Cops. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Which brought Rick to mind. I shoved the memory of his scent down deep inside.
“To carry concealed, blades have to be less than six inches long. North Carolina law,” Billy said. “The shortest one in your possession is twelve inches.”
I almost said, “Penis envy?” but clamped down on my big mouth. I love messing with cops, and one day I was gonna mess with the wrong one. But I was getting smarter. Finally. I couldn’t stop the grin, however, and Billy’s eyes narrowed as if he’d heard the words anyway. “I wasn’t carrying concealed,” I said, sounding reasonable and calm. “The blades were on the table.” Not to say that I didn’t carry them concealed. I did. Often. And if stopped by the cops, I’d use the Vampira Carta as my defense, not that the reasoning would get me very far, but it was all I had.
“And you don’t know who he is?”