5 - Together To Join

Together to Join

by Jackie Ivie

A Vampire Assassin League Novella

“We Kill for Profit”

5th in series

Copyright 2012, Jackie Ivie

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The man went down easy. The woman…he had to hunt.

Garrick shoved the bow over one shoulder, his rifle onto the other, and pulled the night goggles off, as well. He didn’t need them to hunt down a wounded vampire. Even in a dark marshy swamp amidst damp rot and leeches. Relying on his eyes would get him killed. He’d use his vampire side.

Garrick was one of the lucky ones, half-turned; a hunter who’d tasted vampire blood and reaped the rewards: Heightened senses; superior strength and agility; lack of emotion; dearth of soul. The others could relate which vampire they’d tasted and when. He seemed to have been born with it.

He passed the man already turning skeletal, his good looks rotting as they slipped away. That’s what a vampire looked like once speared through the heart: ugly; decayed; dead. Garrick gave the corpse a brief glance before moving on. This one didn’t look more than a century old, at best. That was disappointing, akin to taking a calf when hunting a rutting stag. Garrick angled his head and slid beneath a curtain of weeping willow, masking each step to the swish of water, shaking off any lingering thought of the man’s youth and lack of skill. A dead vampire was a dead vampire. Besides…the mate might be older.

Honed senses caught the slightest whiff of fear. It was tempered by an itch he knew and recognized. It portended a possibility of pain. She might be having trouble with his arrow. That’s why he used real cedar taken from an ancient cross, blessed by an arch-bishop, and then fashioned with little slits to all sides, making it impossible to pull out backward. The slivers became spikes that scraped as they embedded, causing more sear and more pain. Garrick smirked and used his itch as another marker. If it increased he moved a step that direction, a decrease got the opposite.

He factored in smell, sniffing the air more than once. A wounded vampire gave off the slightest scent, akin to ocean rain, hard to catch over his own. Humans gave off a burnt-smell, even the half-turned humans like him. That’s why he spread sandalwood-scented oil on before every hunt and used the clothing from a closet he’d vented through to the neighbors. They were always burning some sort of scent-remover over there. It covered over their pot smoking. It aired his clothing as well. They also turned a deaf ear and blind eye to just about everything. He lived there for a reason and it wasn’t the company.

The slightest sound sifted through wisps of fog, barely decipherable as a moan. Garrick hovered in mid-crouch, slowing his heart rate in order to sharpen his hearing. It paid off almost instantly as another moan tickled his ear. Slight. Soft. Coloring a release of breath no dead creature should need. He was closer than he’d suspected. Or she’d set a trap for him. Or she was more wounded than he thought. He slid his right hand along a camouflage-covered thigh, drying any moisture from it, and then did the same to his left palm. He was really close to his fourth pair kill, and another trophy, and with that would come recognition and accolade as he matched the record. He’d be the highest decorated hunter in the clan. A shiver ran through his frame. The possibility kicked at his heart-rate, altering his advantage. Garrick caught the physical embodiment of joy and stopped the next from happening. If he lost this kill because he celebrated it too soon, he’d never forgive himself! He inched closer, reaching a finger to part the drape of willow.

Another moan graced the scene, and with it an itch begging a scratching. If Garrick smiled, he was smiling. It wasn’t a trap. She was injured, and soon she’d be dead, a wooden stake right through her already-dead heart. He was going to make certain of it. He tilted his entire frame to ooze through the leaves, materializing on the other side of the willow with the move, and hit pay dirt.

His prey was huddled in the midst of a thicket, silhouetted by a glow from some unknown source. If he narrowed his eyes, he could barely discern a shape. Small. Unprotected. Quivering. The itch went massive and deep, forcing him to ignore it as he realized the extent of her injury. Her pain. Her vulnerability. The smell of blood permeated the air about her, putting a reddish hue into the mist. He unfastened the inner pocket of his vest, slipping the elasticized band from about the button; pulled the polished wooden stake out and palmed it, his hand dry and steady; reached behind him for the battle ax tucked into his waistband where the handle always caressed his spine; brought it forward slowly; took another step, and another, lifting incrementally from his crouch as he approached; all of it without one hint of sound. Damn, but he hoped she was an old vampire, or at least a strong one. Worthy of this kill, and the record he was matching.

She was neither.

She looked almost childlike and innocent. And flawed with a gruesome wound that scored what looked to be a perfect shoulder. Garrick hovered above her for a few seconds, evaluating. She was probably the most beautiful, winsome-faced, well-formed woman he’d ever seen. And that was with a face tightened in agony. He knew better than to look, but that didn’t stop him. Vampires had an allure few could countermand. Especially the females. They’d been known to capture a human simply with a non-blinking gaze into their eyes. Knowing that still didn’t stop him.

Garrick told himself it was the thrill. The elation. The absolute power of this particular kill. It was what athletes felt when tying a record. Her perfection only sweetened it. He knelt then, ignoring how his hands gave the slightest tremble. She looked like a little fairy from an artist’s imagination; a sprite springing from the lines of a poem; an angel from a Botticelli. She had light hair of an indecipherable shade, thick lashes that feathered onto perfect skin, and she’d not only torn some of her gown when she’d pushed through the brambles, but raised some welts. She was also panting, and with each exhalation came a pitiful moan. He couldn’t help it. Despite every bit of his training, he reached a hand to her chin to tilt it upward.

The moment he touched her, the world all around him not only rocked off kilter, but something sent an electric shock all the way through him.

Her eyes were open as Garrick jerked back, feeling the quake finish as well as the listening to the hum of near-electrocution in his ears. That wasn’t the worst of it. She had a liquid heat in her gaze. It enveloped and protected, and surrounded. Garrick shook his head. The hum didn’t abate much, nor did the sensation she caused him. The itch was changing, as well. It was turning into a rash-like burn.

“Who…are you?”

She had perfect lips for kissing, too. She demonstrated that with the words, ending in a pout that not only tempted, but damn near reached out and grabbed at him. Garrick swallowed and ground out the reply, and this time he lifted the stake and ax so she wouldn’t mistake him.

“Your executioner.”

“Oh.”

Oh?

He was still reeling from that when she turned her gaze from him to focus on something beyond his seeing. It caused a slight smile to toy about that mouth made for relishing and sucking and kissing. Garrick’s eyes narrowed at the instant thought before he could squelch it. If he were the groaning type, he’d have done so.

“I thought…you were someone else.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Moisture glimmered on the surface of her eyes, making them deeper pools of mystery and darker realms of fantasy. Garrick turned his attention to something real. Something tangible. Something he could control. Like this hellish itch-sensation that was making his clothing feel like it was fashioned from burrs. Garrick lifted the stake in his right hand and moved over her slightly to position it perfectly. He took a deep breath, lowered his right hand, and this time the earth not only rocked, it threw him onto his buttocks beside her, while the electrical charge nearly got him to tears with the pain of it. And through the fire-filled hum filling his ears he heard what sounded like a bit of laughter. Toward him.

What the hell?

Garrick was back in a crouch, his eyes alert and everything primed, but there wasn’t anything to hear except a soft sigh that she gave. The woman. The vampire woman. This wasn’t happening. She had some power he didn’t know enough about, and while his mind reeled with it, his body went through the time-instilled role. Hunt down a vampire. Kill it. He rotated the wooden stake he still held in his hand, gripped the ax handle in his left, and slammed to both knees beside her.

“Are you a hunter?”

She had such beautiful eyes! He didn’t need a bright light to tell. What glow came from the moonlit mist gave him too much. Garrick nodded.

“Alex is dead, then?”

He nodded again.

“You killed him?”

“Yeah. I killed your mate. And now I’m going to finish you.”

“He wasn’t my mate.”

She smiled, and then she grimaced, probably in pain. He told himself he didn’t care, and then took a huge breath before slamming the stake toward her heart. Her hand whipped out and caught his, stopping him at the moment of impact. Garrick thought he’d prepared for the earth tremor and resultant shock that seemed to accompany contact with her, but there was something about her eyes that not only fascinated…it actually pulled at him. Hauling him in. Dragging at everything. Promising and then delivering a vastness of light and warmth and wonder that actually started filling his veins, pumped there by his own heart.

He yanked back, the earth heaved at him in a worse fashion, and this time he howled as it felt like a lightning bolt seared through him, spearing him to the ground with the strength of it. And that’s when he got mad.

Anger choked him, sending the warmth and pain out of existence, and replacing it with full-out uncontrollable rage. He didn’t know what this bitch was, or how she did it, but he was killing her and ending it. Period.

Garrick went to one knee this time and pulled his compound bow from over his shoulder, emotion pumping red to his eyeballs, tension to his frame, and sweat to his palms. He didn’t care. He swiped both hands down his thighs as he watched her, his eyes slit to withstand her gaze. She pulled into a sit, facing him, her injured shoulder lower than the other while an arrow shaft protruded crazily from it. She didn’t say anything. She just watched as he pulled another of his specially prepared arrows from his quill, wet the shaft with his tongue for the psychological effect – at this range he couldn’t miss - and placed it with perfect efficiency. With his power, the projectile was going to go right through her chest, taking her evil dead heart with it. She was going to end up a pile of dust and bones, and he was going to get his uniform patch. And that was that.

“You’re not going to be able to kill me, Garrick.”

The bow trembled. “How do you know my name?” he hissed.

“Everyone knows. I’d say you’re a legend, but I don’t want you to get an even bigger head. It looks like I’ve got enough to deal with already.”

“What?”

The string slackened just slightly. He caught it and steadied it. He was four inches from her heart. Four. All he had to do was release the shaft. Just one move. Release his thumb from his index and middle finger. One small move…

“You should just stop. And help me get this arrow out.”

“Why should I?” He used his harshest military voice. It was harsh and guttural. And carried legions of threat.

“Because it hurts. And I’m losing blood. And you’re just going to have to replenish it.”

“Right. Say good-bye, lady.” He pulled the bow more, moving it to three inches from her heart.

“Garrick—”

She reached a hand toward him and touched the hand holding the arrow. The string snapped back at him with such power, it matched the voltage he already sensed coming. Or accompanied it. Or harmonized with it. He somersaulted backwards, landing flat, with the wind knocked out of him. He told himself that at least the earth hadn’t moved this time and wondered how that mattered. He couldn’t gain breath. All he could do was listen to his heart hammering in rapid-fire fashion, while his ears probably oozed blood at the pain.

She rose, looming out of the fog cover into the area above him, her hair trailing down, caressing every place it touched, somehow replacing the pain of his electric surge with warmth.

“Don’t…touch me.” He didn’t have a voice, so he mouthed it.