KATSUYAMA
By the time he left Geneva, I knew three things about this Draegonne guy. I knew he was drama I didn't need fucking up my life, I knew running after Harrow was going to get him killed (or destroyed, or whatever you call it when Bleeders get offed), and I knew I was already into him in a big way. Any of those was reason enough not to follow him to the States...especially the last one. I don't mind hooking up now and again to scratch an itch, but relationships are not my thing. I like simplicity. Maybe it came with my Japanese blood.
So it bothered me that I couldn't stop thinking about him. Not in a school-girl crush way, heart all pitter-patter, but more like wondering if he had been totally possessed by this ancient vamp yet. I had seen it up close and personal. That night in die Nachtpalast did something to him...messed with his head. He was different immediately after it. To be blunt it gave me the fucking creeps. I know I had just met the guy, but I read people pretty damn well. Always have. And there were moments on the way back to Geneva that it sounded like someone else was talking through the guy. Especially the bit back at the hotel. I mean, yeah...alright. I did give him a bit of a brush off, but I had also done this guy a solid saving his boy toy blood doll like that. I don't think I deserved the attitude blast he hit me with.
And yeah, it bothered me how much that bothered me.
Screw him, I told myself. I decided to put him out of my mind the old fashioned way; get over a guy by getting under another one.
I had a friend DJing at Avalon that night, so I put on this new school boy uniform I had been aching to take for a spin, and made sure it was just untucked and tussled enough to look less prep and more punk. I put on extra eye-liner shook my hair out into a lion's mane. Kitteh was on the hunt tonight.
The place was predictably packed, a sea of half-naked bodies writhing in the pit. Bathed in red and yellow laser-light, the music throbbing, it reminded me of something out of Dante's Inferno. As I descended the stairs into the crowds, a new remix of the old Lords of Acid "Show Me Your Pussay" launched from the speakers. The timing really couldn't have been more perfect.
It didn't take me long, really. It never does. He was this red-haired Danish boy, snuck in the door on a doctored ID and flying high on E. He had the cutest dusting of freckles over his cheekbones and bridge of his nose. Ginger. Kitteh likes himself some ginger. Without saying a word I went straight up to him, pressed my pelvis to his, and started sucking on his tongue. We were grinding together on the floor about half an hour before the action moved outside.
Neither of us much minded the cold. We found an alley about half a block from the club, and he was down on his knees with my cock in his mouth. Which is when they appeared.
I cursed. Another minute of two of ginger working my tool and I might have unloaded. That wasn't going to happen now.
Nikolea.
The boy saw them but it was clear he didn't know the score. I think what must have gone through the poor bastard's head was that these toughs were gay-bashers. He got up on his feet, wiping his mouth while I put my dick back in my pants, thinking this was going to get messy. He held his hands up and told them he didn't want any trouble.
Jesus those fuckers are fast. Three of them were on the kid, lifting him off his feet and against the wall. It was a fucking fang-bang. Two of them had their teeth in his throat, stifling his agonised screams with a fist jammed into his mouth. A third was sucking at his wrist. I am no body's freaking hero, but the look of terror and pain in that sweet kid's face brought a snarl to my face. I would've tried to help him if I didn't have four others to deal with.
They stood between me and him as he slowly stopped thrashing and the light went out in his eyes.
"I caught your scent," the big one said. He looked Arab to me, North African, fangs at least three inches long. Despite the cold he was wearing a flimsy T, muscles rippling underneath it. "I tracked you. You some vampire's bitch, boy? You got the stink of the Tenebrati on you."
Fuck, I thought, glancing a final time at Ginger. His dead eyes seemed to stare back at me. This wasn't random. And I got him killed.
Quietly, I drew the knife I kept in my boot. I didn't think I could win, but I wasn't going down without drawing my own share of vamp blood. "I do? And here I thought I had showered him off."
The Outcasts closed in, slower. I don't think the knife intimidated them, they just wanted to make me squirm. Then the one that looked like a snake--seriously, no hair or eyebrows and pale skin that looked like he'd stolen it from a boa constrictor--grabbed the big one's arm. "No. Wait. Wait!"
The big one growled, clearly hot for my blood. This made the snake even squirmier. He raised his voice. "No! I know who this is! He's the one who went to die Nachtpalast. He was with the Draegonne!"
My eyes flicked to the big one's face, and it looked like something big and scary had just reached out and squeezed his balls to pulp. He staggered back a step.
And before I could make a smart alec remark--and I can spit those fuckers out like machine-gun fire--the whole pack of them vanished, racing off into the night.
I swallowed, trying to coax my heart back into my chest from where it felt lodged in my throat. Then I went over to Ginger.
Too late for him.
My hands balled into fists, and my eyes went back to the mouth of the alleyway. He doesn't just scare the Dragons, he scares the fucking Nikolea as well.
"America, here I come," I whispered.
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