Authors: May Ellis Daniels
The All Encompassing
Pureblood Predator MC
May Ellis Daniels
© 2015 May Ellis Daniels
All rights reserved.
The All Encompassing
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events portrayed in this story are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, shared, down-loaded, compiled, stored, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.
strapped to a chair in front of me knows he’s about to die and the fear-stink coming off him is so strong it makes me light a smoke.
How Stricken look doesn’t always match who they are and what they do. They like to try and throw us Purebloods off the scent. But this one? He’s a fat, quivering greasebag with puffy, heavy-lidded eyes and a shining bald head and even if I didn’t know he’s a Stricken I’d think he’s a sick bastard, some kind of perverted fuck.
And I’d be right.
I run my hand over Greasebag’s sweaty bald head, drop a claw out, scratch him a bit. Every instinct is screaming at me to gut the worthless bastard and get the fuck out of his stinking lair, but sometimes with a Stricken kill it’s best to take your time.
Murdering Stricken boosts my MC’s morale.
Greasebag whines through the cotton wad stuffed in his mouth as his filthy black blood oozes from the scratch mark.
I hate whiners. Best we can do is die with some fucking dignity.
Mia slides a heavy-looking metal box on the table. She found it under Greasebag’s bed. I run my claw under Greasebag’s chin, down his neck while he whines and quivers and denies.
I don’t need to look in the box.
Prefer not to, actually. I know what this sick bastard is.
What gets him off.
But Mia’s into the whole this-is-your-sin thing. Kind of a righteous kick. As if being a Stricken isn’t reason enough to have your black heart torn out. Mia’s violent-green eyes sparkle as she reaches in the metal box and tosses a few photos on the table in front of Greasebag.
Those fucking snake eyes. Damn.
They still get to me, even after the mountain of shit we’ve been through.
Mia’s animal’s running close, and scenting her bloodlust makes my wolf pace and growl. I clench my hands together in a tight fist behind Greasebag’s head. Takes some willpower to keep my animal reigned in when I’m preying on this kind of filth.
“These are for you, hey asshole?” Mia says, rapping her knuckles on the pictures while she speaks. “Your personal stash?”
Greasebag keeps his head lowered.
Mia lifts a handful of memory sticks from the box. “And these are for your customers? Quite a brisk business you got here, hey asshole?”
“Fuck sakes,” I say, making damn sure not to look at the photos.
Greasebag glances at the photos and starts up weird high-pitched squeal. It’s a nasty sound, halfway between excited and terrified. Either way the sound grates into my ears and holy hell do I want to murder this sick motherfucker.
“C’mon, Mia,” I growl. “Let’s gut him. Nash needs a feed.”
Mia ignores me and says, “Old enough to pee, old enough for me,” mimicking Greasebag’s throaty voice, which sounds really odd coming from a beauty like Mia. She has a punk biker-chick look going on that makes a guy both want to stare ‘cuz she’s so hot and also makes him nervous about getting caught staring ‘cuz he knows she’ll kick his ass.
Girl looks damn good in the Pureblood’s leather cut.
Deadly fucking beauty. I should know.
But right now I’m using most of my mental energy just to stop myself from ripping Greasebag’s head off, and with the rest I’m half-thinking about Mia ignoring me. She’s been doing that recently. Not a lot, but enough to make me think about it, and fretting like a weak-ass bitch…yeah, that’s a buzz kill for sure.
An MC Prez can’t allow his crew to ignore him, or he won’t remain Prez for long.
The pigs’ll find his torn-up body in a ditch. Pure and simple. Black and white. That’s natural law, and that’s how it should be. The strong prey on the weak. Pureblood prey on Stricken. Only the Skins—the humans—feel the need to fuck the world up by overcomplicating everything.
Mia lifts her heavily-inked right arm. Her skin ripples and darkens and then her hand elongates into a hissing snake’s head, a green-scaled silvery thing with a flicking forked tongue and wicked-looking vertical pupils set in bright green irises.
Greasebag’s urine reek fills the tiny apartment.
Mia smiles, flicks out her tongue.
Nash makes a disgusted let’s-murder-the-ugly-fucker sound.
I’m in complete agreement, but I hold back, letting Mia have her fun.
I take a heavy drag on my smoke while Mia’s snake slides under the table and by the way Greasebag tenses and gasps I know exactly what the snakes are rubbing down there.
That Mia. What a trip.
“They look at you?” Mia asks while her other hand becomes a blue-black snake and slides under the table to join the first. “Those babies look at you when you touch them?”
Greasebag blubbers and whimpers and and tries to push away from the snakes rubbing his crotch, but I lay my hand on the back of his neck and hold him tight.
This Stricken shitbag isn’t going nowhere.
There’s no justice in the world. I’ve been alive long enough to learn that, and I’m a slow learner. Mia torturing Greasebag isn’t a case of what goes around comes around.
It isn’t fucking
Sometimes you just get caught. Unlucky.
Sometimes you get…preyed upon.
Sorry, my kid brother, chuckles from his position guarding the door. I smile too, because suddenly Mia torturing Greasebag does strike me as funny and then Nash looses a barking laugh and Sorry’s chuckle becomes a kind of chuffing growl and then all I want to do is howl, long and loud, and rip Greasebag’s ugly head off and race out of this filthy apartment and get on my Harley and lean into the night wind, bending the throttle back so hard my wrist aches, cutting way too sharp through the corners and feeling the back wheel slide out, just a bit, and knowing there’s a fine line between freedom and death.
But tonight I promised this Stricken’s beating black heart to Nash and like he’s reading my mind Nash leans over the table, inhales a rail of blow as long as the interstate and says to Mia, “He’s mine girl this feed’s mine I’m a open him up.”
Nash always speaks in a breathless rush. He’s an impatient bastard, and even more so now that his jaws are thickening and his fangs dropping—
Mia sighs and the snakes reappear from under the table. They pause in front of Greasebag’s face, hissing and spitting, then rub up and down his sweaty cheeks and neck. Greasebag moans through the gag. Then the snakes are gone. Mia wipes her hands on her jeans and inspects her black-painted fingernails with disgust.
“You liked it,” I say, messing with her a little just because I can. “Admit it.”
“Piss off, Aaron,” Mia says, moving away from the table and turning to face Nash. “Make it slow, will ya? This asshole deserves to suffer.”
“Every Stricken does,” Nash answers.
Sorry laughs again, then leans out the doorway and scans the hall.
We’re in Greasebag’s one-room apartment in Seattle’s Chinatown. The apartment stinks, just like the rest of the city. There’s a hot plate and a sink and a sweat-stained bed and a video camera on a tripod linked to a laptop and that’s about all. Greasebag, you see, is an amateur videographer and internet entrepreneur. Oh, and there’s cardboard and tinfoil duct-taped over the only window.
That’s helpful tonight.
Nash paces beside Greasebag. Nash's brow deepens and his chin gets long and wide and his hands grow huge and then he reaches up under his Pureblood Predator MC cut and tears his black t-shirt down to expose swirling black-ink tattoos and an inch-thick iron collar strapped around his rapidly swelling neck.
Which, I now understand, is when the whole fucking world starts to go sketch.
But at the time, in the moment, I don’t notice nothing as my animal surges and the feeling’s like sticking your hand in a flame and not being burned and Nash is taller now, his long, lanky, tight-muscled frame growing heavier, the iron collar digging into his skin and that’s about as close as he can get to his animal before his neck swells too large and the collar fucking strangles him.
The kill-need comes off Nash in rank, desperate waves, the need to be himself, to free what he is and always will be, and his need sparks mine and I reach up and dig my nails under my iron collar and pull and tug and tear at it. The skin beneath is raw and seeping but I don’t care, fuck it, the world is pain inside and out and —
Greasebag makes a not-cool sound.
It’s muted by the gag, of course, but it’s a laugh.
For fucking certain.
Nash circles around real fast and doubles back and circles around like he’s chasing his own tail. His hands are large as dinner plates and he’s sporting inch-long yellow claws and his face narrows around his massive jaw like a sculpture with too much stone carved away and he’s repeating over and over, “Please Aaron let me open him Prez let me rip his fucking heart out—”
Fucking guy’s near mad with hunger.
Which makes me realize a couple things. First is that it’s been a while since Nash had a kill, and I need to watch that more carefully unless I want to find Nash knee deep in Skin blood one night.
Second is that they’ve never given me nickname. My crew. My pack. No AKA. I’m just Aaron. Prez of the northwest chapter of the Pureblood Predators MC. Say those words and anyone with any sense knows exactly who you mean.
And that’s enough.
I nod to Nash.
Nash leaps across the room so fast I wouldn’t have been able to see him move unless my wolf was so close. Mia hisses and Sorry over there at the door starts mumbling, “Hey man I’m really sorry about all this, you know, I need to apologize, ok…”