meet and deal with each other without warfare erupting.
I smirked at the back of his shiny, bald head. “First round’s on you.”
SIX
“Vampire Princesses play well with others;
much like a werewolf and the slow kid down
the street. I hear the funeral was nice.”
— Caine Deathwalker
We stopped in the middle of the street. Parking was just around the corner, but the scene in front of The Velvet Door demanded our attention. Two twenty-five foot pythons were using their coils to crush patrons who’d been leaving the bar. The snakes’ olive-brown and black scales marked them as rock pythons, and from the dissolving lump in the middle of one of them, I could tell it had just swallowed someone it disagreed with. A few guns were lying on the sidewalk, in pools of blood. Wild shots had scored the brickwork and the front door. The doorman Claude—with a face even a mother would loathe—was down on his knees, a hand clamped against a bloody shoulder.
“Chiirist on a rubber raft!” Claude said. “Naga!”
Yeah, the mountain giant’s buddies had joined the party. The invasion of L.A.’s preternatural community was on. I wondered where else they were hitting.
Zero-T got out from behind the wheel and gently closed his door. One hand on the side wall of the Volvo C-70, I sprang out and landed on the street, my phone chiming. I answered while Zero-T pulled out a Magnum, sighting on the closest snake.
I spoke into my phone. “Yeah?”
Gloria’s dead-flat voice spilled out. “Caine, where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Good. Stay out of the way. I’m coming out.”
“Fine.”
There had been icy anger in her voice. This place was a neutral territory where violence was forbidden. The naga might have thought they were trashing some bar, but they were messing with hell in heels. As a pure blood —vampire royalty—I wasn’t surprised to find her active; she could function in daylight like a dhampyr, when other vamps were coffin-bound. Master vamps and pure bloods were like that.
I put away my phone and leaned back against the Volvo, waving to get Zero-T’s attention.
Ignoring me, he lay across the hood of his car, bracing his gun in a two-handed grip. He squeezed off a shot, and a snake’s eye exploded. The naga uncoiled, flinging away several crushed bodies. One of the corpses slammed into a parked car and set off the annoying hoot of a car alarm. The wounded naga thrashed then stilled as the eye restored itself. I’d known werewolves could do that, but not naga.
I called out, “Hold your fire. Gloria’s coming. Shoot her by accident, and she’ll rip your head off and stuff it up your ass. You’ll walk funny the rest of your life.”
Zero-T slanted me a look, holstered his gun, and pushed off the car, coming around the front grille to join me. He leaned against the vehicle as I did and he crossed his arms to match my posture. The bar door opened slowly. Gloria emerged, five-foot-four, a hundred and fifteen pounds of well-disguised cold-hearted terror. Her eyes were flame red. Her black hair—streaked with pink highlights—was tied at the nape of her neck.
Her usual glamorous gown was gone. She’d doubtless not wanted it ruined with blood and gore. Also, the long skirts she favored would have hindered movement. She’d improvised a new outfit: two bar aprons, one covering her front, the other her back, all tied snuggly to her generous curves. Her arms and legs were bare. She’d abandoned her heels as well. With only one hand, she gripped the hilt of a two-handed broadsword that had been carved as one piece from a massive fang. Its white tip dragged across the threshold of the door as she strolled toward the naga.
Claude took the opportunity to run inside the
I smirked at the back of his shiny, bald head. “First round’s on you.”
SIX
“Vampire Princesses play well with others;
much like a werewolf and the slow kid down
the street. I hear the funeral was nice.”
— Caine Deathwalker
We stopped in the middle of the street. Parking was just around the corner, but the scene in front of The Velvet Door demanded our attention. Two twenty-five foot pythons were using their coils to crush patrons who’d been leaving the bar. The snakes’ olive-brown and black scales marked them as rock pythons, and from the dissolving lump in the middle of one of them, I could tell it had just swallowed someone it disagreed with. A few guns were lying on the sidewalk, in pools of blood. Wild shots had scored the brickwork and the front door. The doorman Claude—with a face even a mother would loathe—was down on his knees, a hand clamped against a bloody shoulder.
“Chiirist on a rubber raft!” Claude said. “Naga!”
Yeah, the mountain giant’s buddies had joined the party. The invasion of L.A.’s preternatural community was on. I wondered where else they were hitting.
Zero-T got out from behind the wheel and gently closed his door. One hand on the side wall of the Volvo C-70, I sprang out and landed on the street, my phone chiming. I answered while Zero-T pulled out a Magnum, sighting on the closest snake.
I spoke into my phone. “Yeah?”
Gloria’s dead-flat voice spilled out. “Caine, where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Good. Stay out of the way. I’m coming out.”
“Fine.”
There had been icy anger in her voice. This place was a neutral territory where violence was forbidden. The naga might have thought they were trashing some bar, but they were messing with hell in heels. As a pure blood —vampire royalty—I wasn’t surprised to find her active; she could function in daylight like a dhampyr, when other vamps were coffin-bound. Master vamps and pure bloods were like that.
I put away my phone and leaned back against the Volvo, waving to get Zero-T’s attention.
Ignoring me, he lay across the hood of his car, bracing his gun in a two-handed grip. He squeezed off a shot, and a snake’s eye exploded. The naga uncoiled, flinging away several crushed bodies. One of the corpses slammed into a parked car and set off the annoying hoot of a car alarm. The wounded naga thrashed then stilled as the eye restored itself. I’d known werewolves could do that, but not naga.
I called out, “Hold your fire. Gloria’s coming. Shoot her by accident, and she’ll rip your head off and stuff it up your ass. You’ll walk funny the rest of your life.”
Zero-T slanted me a look, holstered his gun, and pushed off the car, coming around the front grille to join me. He leaned against the vehicle as I did and he crossed his arms to match my posture. The bar door opened slowly. Gloria emerged, five-foot-four, a hundred and fifteen pounds of well-disguised cold-hearted terror. Her eyes were flame red. Her black hair—streaked with pink highlights—was tied at the nape of her neck.
Her usual glamorous gown was gone. She’d doubtless not wanted it ruined with blood and gore. Also, the long skirts she favored would have hindered movement. She’d improvised a new outfit: two bar aprons, one covering her front, the other her back, all tied snuggly to her generous curves. Her arms and legs were bare. She’d abandoned her heels as well. With only one hand, she gripped the hilt of a two-handed broadsword that had been carved as one piece from a massive fang. Its white tip dragged across the threshold of the door as she strolled toward the naga.
Claude took the opportunity to run inside the
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