Captain Jordan Wolfe - vampire, paramilitary soldier, and occasional underground fighter - has one mission: hunt down a hidden archive before anyone discovers its secrets. But the first clue lies with the unsuspecting heiress to a media empire, being pursued by monsters worse than him.
Old rumours surface. Long-time enemies become immediate threats. The hunt for the archive uncovers the most depraved enterprise thriving in the shadows of the modern world. And if the truth ever becomes public, the people will learn what really flows through the veins of the powerful.
Jordan must deliver justice the only way he knows how.
Audiobook coming soon
PROLOGUE
The Chemist
Gregori Nyx was a man, a vampire, and a fiend. He lounged in the rear seat of a black sedan, while mist gathered in the evening shadows around the city. Watching the doors of an exclusive vampire club across the street, he waited for his contact to emerge and confirm his instructions. He took a long draw on his cigar and sighed, letting the smoke curl slowly out of his mouth, while he considered the prosperity ahead.
Gregori had been in his forties when he was reborn, and today, many decades later, he appeared to be unchanged — except for a few silver scars on his olive skin, and a small, circular red brand on his neck, below his ear, about the size of a penny. He smoothed his left hand over his shaved head, a bulky ring on his pinky finger glinting in the light from the street lamps.
The invitation-only club stroked the egos of the wealthiest vampires in the city of St. Corvus. If you didn’t know a vampire with membership, you couldn’t get in. Unless you were human, of course — there were plenty of blood donors in the private rooms beyond the front bar.
Gregori wasn’t interested in rubbing elbows with the club members, though. His interest was the products he could sell them.
Blood infused with every kind of liquor imaginable was served at the club, and it was known in particular for the best absinthe-infused blood in the city. But it was to the private booths upstairs that the most exclusive of the exclusive vampires would retreat, to indulge in the most coveted delicacies — all very illegal, if they cared for human laws. They didn’t. It was the Vampire Council that would come down on them hard if their activities caused messy scenes in front of unsuspecting humans, or too many human deaths in one night. Gregori knew all too well about that. So discretion was still required. They couldn’t have hordes of drunk and drugged vampires causing havoc in the nightclub district every Saturday night. And that just made the products more exclusive, and therefore, more expensive.
Only upstairs, in those private booths, could vampires indulge in the blood drinks infused with narcotics or psychedelics. And recently, thanks to Gregori and his partners, a new item had been added to the menu. Though the concept for this product was ancient, and rumors had always circulated that someone had attempted a version of it, Gregori believed he now had the perfect formulation. Because Gregori wasn’t just any dirty vampire making a few dimes selling drugged blood. Not only was he the leader of a gang he’d named the Nyx Hunters, and a ruthless businessman, but he was also an exceptional chemist.
This new item of Gregori’s was something so secretive, it would not be mentioned by the wait staff. The usual menu was memorized and offered in hushed tones to the clientele, but not Gregori’s product. It crossed a line many vampires wouldn’t. The client had to already know of it, and request it specifically, using any of its three names: Elli, L.E., or Lucifer’s Elixir.
As he took another draw on his cigar, Gregori’s right hand slipped into his pants pocket and stroked a stiletto switchblade — an old friend. It had mother of pearl set into the handle, and a blade he would sharpen lovingly. Silver glyphs were inlaid down the center, causing delicious pain to any vampire he stabbed with it. He considered for a few moments his level of irritation at being kept waiting.
CHAPTER ONE
The Heiress
She wore a stylish black dress. Black stockings. Sleek black heels. Her gaze leaving the mirror, Vivienne Drake sighed as she examined the old pendant necklace that held a large black crystal, heavy and ominous in her clammy hand. The oval pendant was surrounded by silver filigree and on the back were engraved the words: To keep the monsters at bay. It had been a gift from her recently deceased father. She’d always thought the warning on the pendant was some kind of joke, just one of his many superstitions, but she was feeling sentimental today, the day of his funeral. Plus it went with the all-black attire, of course. She placed it around her neck as the finishing touch to her mourning outfit. She checked her pale brown hair, swept up into a French twist, and tried to ignore the puffiness around her hazel eyes. A final shaky sigh as she stuffed tissues into her black handbag, and it was time to go down to the waiting Mercedes.
***
Inside a vast church, three men in black suits stood as motionless as graves. The middle of the three, the tallest, had piercing blue eyes and jet-black hair. Jordan Wolfe, Captain in the Vampire Council urban paramilitary, and chief liaison with the city’s biggest media corporation, Drake Media. He and his lieutenants didn’t, on the surface, stand out amongst the several hundred mourners. Except for one thing — power. Anyone who came within a few yards of them noticed it immediately, like a scent in the air, a fracture in the energy field. People reacted by subtly inching away in fear, or staring in fascination. Some would move closer, like a magnet was drawing them in. The dangerous men looked slightly bored, yet their eyes moved slowly over the crowd, not missing a single movement or gesture.
They watched the coffin being carried by six pallbearers, slow-marched down the central aisle and outside to a waiting hearse and a throng of press photographers.
Only one immediate family member followed slowly behind — the daughter, Vivienne, heiress to the Drake Media fortune. Poised and graceful, she stared straight ahead, like she was bred for moments exactly like this. The other family, close friends and associates who had taken up the first rows followed, and everyone else slowly crushed through exits on either side of the building, the three men among them.
Gliding down the street away from the church, the men wore long black overcoats against the icy morning air. They paused to turn back and watch the daughter step into a black Mercedes to follow the hearse.
A phone vibrated in Jordan’s pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen. His boss. “Major Küsnacht.”
“Wolfe. How did it go?”
Following the convoy of black vehicles with his blue eyes, Jordan turned away and continued walking down the street. “No incidents. Nothing unexpected.”
“Good. You have a meeting with the new CEO of Drake Media at ten-hundred hours tomorrow, their offices. A gentleman by the name of Lindon Hawthorne. It’s time to impress upon him the special nature of our relationship and the importance of his work for us.”
“Yes, sir,” Jordan replied.
“There’s something else,” Charles paused, his voice carrying a note of concern. “We’ve received intel, a rumor, that Magnus Drake was keeping a file on us. Possibly an entire archive, in fact.” Jordan raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “Your orders are to question Mr. Hawthorne and locate the archive, if such a thing does exist.”
“And do you want it destroyed or…”
“Bring it to the Council and we’ll determine that. It may be useful.”
CHAPTER TWO
Incident Management
The following morning, Jordan sat with an immortal’s patience in a large leather armchair on the topmost floor of the Drake Media Corporation building. After refusing the receptionist’s offer of a coffee, he watched her flit around the front desk, flapping papers about, taking phone calls in hushed tones, striding down the hall to offices and back. She had perfectly styled blonde hair and wore professional attire of skirt and blouse, her high heels clicking on the herringbone parquet floor, her polished fingernails tapping on her keyboard.
It was hard to ignore the tension and fluster of every human being in the building, like a hive of bees who have lost their queen — or in this case, their king. But Jordan had seen too much for the death of one man — however significant he was to others — to mean much beyond a few passing recollections, and the inconvenience of starting over with someone new. Magnus Drake was so experienced that Jordan had only liaised with him directly if there was a particularly complicated incident. He hoped he didn’t have to hand-hold the new CEO.
Finally the receptionist, her attention suddenly caught by a voice in her earpiece, looked directly at him and briskly approached.
“Mr. Hawthorne will see you now,” she said in a low voice.
“Thank you,” Jordan responded, standing and following her into the CEO’s office.
He saw Lindon Hawthorne’s head bent over an enormous and imposing desk. Lindon looked up at the click of the door closing behind his receptionist. He was a well-built man in his forties, short brown hair starting to gray, a gold band on his wedding finger, a navy blue suit with a gold watch glinting from under the cuff.
His eyes widened fractionally at the sight of Jordan, and he slowly stood to offer his hand in greeting.
“Mr. Wolfe, it’s nice to meet you.”
Jordan smoothly crossed the floor, and gripped Lindon’s hand with enough force to convey his physical strength without actually causing pain.
“Lindon, is that right?”
“Yes, yes,” Lindon gestured for Jordan to take a seat, then took his own. “I… well I appreciate you meeting with me. I wasn’t expecting a visit so soon… Magnus had explained to me… well I understand…”
Jordan interrupted. “Mr. Hawthorne. Lindon. I’m just here to express our condolences. And to check that you are aware of us, and our expectations. It’s a relief to know that Magnus had communicated the situation to you, but I need to ensure you fully comprehend the serious responsibility of your position.” Jordan paused here to assess how his words were being received. Lindon had a light sheen of sweat all over his face and his eyes had grown wider. He swallowed and cleared his throat. Twice.
“Ah, well, Mr. Wolfe, yes, Magnus was very organized, toward the end, had a detailed succession plan with the whole company in mind, of course, and it did indeed include a very thorough… explanation of what we do here for you. We spoke for a long time. And of course I intend to continue the great work that Drake Media have always done for your…. For you…”
“Lindon.”
“Yes?”
Jordan looked deeply into Lindon’s eyes, with an intensity that caused Lindon to lean back, and yet he was unable to break the eye contact.
“I want you to understand that you are not just continuing work, but you are prioritizing this work above all else. That the work you do for us is your central and primary concern.”
Jordan stood and, keeping the eye contact, stalked slowly around the desk to stand right next to Lindon, who had swiveled in his chair, gripping the armrests. “Your nice clothes, and your fancy car, and your big house, are all possible through the work you do for us. I want you to know that neglecting our needs in any way, will end very badly for you.”
Jordan paused for effect and leaned closer, towering over Lindon, who stumbled as he stood, and took one step back, although was still unable to tear his eyes away from Jordan’s stare. “But we’re going to look after each other, aren’t we?” Jordan’s ice-blue eyes were as sharp as daggers. He placed one cold index finger on Lindon’s shoulder and pushed him down. “Sit.”
Maintaining his vise-like eye contact, Jordan lowered his voice, almost whispering. “Concentrate now, Lindon. You’re going to answer a question for me.” Lindon nodded from his seat, eager to obey. “Tell me, did Magnus have a file, or perhaps even a collection of files, an archive you might say? An archive about us?”
Lindon swallowed nervously and Jordan knew the man was feeling dazed and numb. And scared. His words came out very quietly now.
“Ah… no, not that I know of. I don’t have any files about you, any of you in particular, or in general. Everything is deleted, immediately. Anything to do with vampires, that is. Magnus never said anything about keeping files, or photos, or anything. That’s our job isn’t it, to wipe everything clean, as though it was never there? I don’t know of any record being kept.”
Jordan was a little disappointed. It would have been so easy to extract the information from Lindon, if there was any information to be had. Unfortunately — or, fortunately for Lindon perhaps — Jordan could tell that Lindon was being truthful. Which meant Jordan needed to look further, until he was certain as to where this rumor came from.
“Thank you Lindon. I would like you to do a little digging for me, with any of your staff who come into contact with our activities, to be certain no one is making copies of their own. If you find anything, you will let me know straight away, won’t you?”
Jordan finally released his gaze and let his eyes wander to the expanse of windows behind Lindon’s desk, and the city beyond.
“Yes of course Mr. Wolfe,” Lindon breathed, inhaling deeply as though coming up for air after a dive into the depths of the ocean.
Jordan swept through the lobby — giving the receptionist half a smile — and crossed to the elevator. As he punched the glossy brass button, he heard the click of a woman’s heels approaching quietly and stopping behind him, someone else waiting to depart the floor. He breathed in slowly. Expensive perfume, not overpowering, shampoo, quality fabrics, leather shoes. All this he could smell in one breath. The ding of the elevator, the doors slid open, he turned to let her enter first.
Then he realized who she was. Vivienne Drake, the daughter of Magnus Drake, media tycoon, and the man who had kept their secrets for decades.
“Ground floor?” he asked, as he pressed the button.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured. She seemed in the depths of grief. She was wearing a cream silk blouse and dark skirt, her hair styled loose around her shoulders and a large black crystal pendant around her neck. The doors closed and the elevator began to descend. He knew he only had a few moments.
“Ms Drake,” he began, “allow me to offer my sincere condolences on the passing of your father.” She looked up and met his gaze. Her eyes were hazel, flecked with green, and glossy with recent tears. He continued, “He was a good man. I was at the funeral. We worked together for some years,” Jordan could see his words were meaningless to her, she’d probably had a hundred of these conversations in the past few days. He needed to get to the point. “Ms Drake,” he said again, “I want to ask you a question.” He spoke gently, but his eyes became intensely focused on hers. She blinked.
“Yes?”
His brows lowered infinitesimally, almost a frown. Strange.
He looked deeper into her eyes, which were framed by long black lashes with a hint of redness around the edges. But he couldn’t sense any real emotions from inside of her.
“Your father may have kept a file with some… confidential material in it, which my boss needs to find. Do you by any chance know what I’m referring to?”
“No.” She blinked again, then looked away. Weird. “I’ve never had much to do with his work. In fact, I’m only here in this building because I had to sign some paperwork, lots of transition processes, you know. Sorry,” she said, as the elevator arrived at the ground floor with a ding, and the doors slid open.
“Not at all,” Jordan followed her out and reached into his suit pocket, “but if you wouldn’t mind, here’s my card.” He handed her a crisp white business card, with his name and number in bold black font — no address, no company name. “If you happen to find something… call me, please.” They exited the lobby into the cold morning air, the sidewalk wet from recent rain. She stopped to look at his card, and as she glanced up again he tried once more to capture her gaze, searching for a response. She seemed momentarily drawn toward him, taking one step forward as she held his card. He put his hand out to shake hers and she quickly slipped the card into her bag before politely extending her hand. “Jordan,” he said, holding her soft warm hand in his. “I worked with your father on… incident management,” he hesitated, unsure of how much, if any, she knew about her late father’s work.
“Incident management?” She looked puzzled.
“Containment. He helped us keep delicate situations under wraps… away from public attention.”
“Oh!” she said, surprised. “I wasn’t aware there was a… department for that. Do you mean political issues, or national security, that type of thing?”
“Something like that.” He reluctantly let her hand go.
“And there’s a file missing?” she asked.
“There may be. It’s something your father may have kept privately. Rather than at the office, I mean.”
“Oh. Ok, well I’ll keep an eye out.” He could tell she didn’t really mean it and just wanted to leave. But her damn eyes wouldn’t stay put on his. He gave up.
“Call me if you find anything,” Jordan said again. “Actually, call me if anything unusual happens, anything out of the ordinary, can you do that?”
“Sure, I will,” she said, though he had no confidence that she would even remember this conversation. He nodded a goodbye, then watched while she got into a chauffeured car. As he turned and strode down the street to his black Council sedan he shook his head, as if to wake himself from a daydream.
***
The last bell of the day blared out through the Saint Corvus High School speaker system and the classroom doors purged their students in a loud, chaotic swell. Chelsea Collins lingered at the gates, chatting to a friend, her brown hair and blue eyes shining in the afternoon sun. Waving goodbye to her friend, she began walking home down a side street.
Within a few steps she heard voices, an argument, then sharp laughter, followed by a thud. An alleyway came up on her left and she glanced quickly down it. There, backed up against the wall was a girl two grades below Chelsea, an older boy looming over her, pushing his finger into her shoulder. Her backpack was on the ground, the contents spilled.
“Hey!” Chelsea yelled, before thinking. Suddenly, she had sprinted down the alleyway and was standing right next to the tall boy. He looked momentarily surprised, as she blurted out “Leave her alone!”
“Mind your own business, freak,” he sneered, turning to face her, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. Chelsea instantly felt every vein in her body thrumming with her blood, moving faster, causing a buzzing, vibrating sensation in all of her limbs. Her body seemed to make a decision without her input, as she watched her hands push the boy flat in the chest.
He appeared to move in slow motion, lifting into the air, flying backwards, arms flailing, with nothing to stop him but the brick wall on the other side of the alleyway. He smashed into it and then slid down, landing on his ass on the concrete with a grunt.
The young girl grabbed her stuff and bolted while Chelsea stood panting, eyes wide, feeling exhilarated, but very, very confused. The boy stared at her in shock, but before he could say anything, she turned and ran.
Sneakers pounding the pavement, Chelsea didn’t stop running until she got home. She let her backpack clatter to the floor in the front hall as she slammed the front door.
“Chelsea?” her adoptive mother Hannah called from the kitchen, her steps coming down the hall. “How are you? Did you have a nice—” Seeing Chelsea, chest still heaving as she caught her breath, her mom’s tone instantly changed to concern. “Honey, what’s wrong? What happened?” She grabbed Chelsea’s shoulders and peered at her with a furrowed brow. Her mom’s warm arms instantly brought Chelsea’s panic down a notch.
“I’m ok, I’m ok,” Chelsea insisted, “I’m just— there was another— something happened, something weird, again.”
“Okay, okay, come with me, let’s sit you down, then you can explain.” Her mom shepherded Chelsea into the kitchen and she collapsed onto a chair. “So tell me,” her mom said, as she went to grab a glass of water.
“I pushed a boy and he flew, I mean literally lifted off the ground, and flew through the air, all the way to the other side of the alleyway. All I did was push him, with my bare hands,” Chelsea held them up, trembling, “with barely any force at all.”
“Okay.” Her mom took a deep breath, and paused, as though gathering her thoughts. “Firstly, was he seriously hurt? I mean more than just a bump?”
“No,” Chelsea shook her head, watching as her mom filled a glass at the kitchen sink, her graying brown hair in a messy bun atop her head.
“Ok. Fine. Good, that’s good. And do you remember how you were feeling right before this? Why did you push him?” She handed Chelsea a big glass of water, and leaned against the kitchen counter, a dish towel balanced on her shoulder.
“He was scaring a girl, she’s two grades below me, and he’s one year above me, and I didn’t mean to, but I yelled out and then before I knew it, I was right in front of him, right in his face, and I pushed him,” she took a gulp of water. “Then I ran home. That’s it.”
Chelsea’s breathing had slowed now and she gripped the glass hard. “I just don’t understand what’s happening to me, Mom. This is like superhero stuff! It’s not normal! And you know what, after running all the way home, I’m not even tired! I’m a bit shaky I guess, but I could have run for miles and miles. What is going on?” Chelsea slammed her glass on the table and it shattered, a shard cutting into her palm. Gasping and muttering curses then apologies to each other, they both dashed to the sink and her mom helped wash Chelsea’s bloody hand under cold water.
“Honey, I’m sorry, I know this is very confusing for you and I wish I knew what to do—” her mom cut off when Chelsea gasped.
“Mom,” she whispered, staring down into the sink, mesmerized. She was watching the water running over her hand, a tiny stream of blood still leaking from the cut. As she watched, the blood stopped, the skin seemed to glue itself shut — slowly at first, as though from the inside, then outwards toward the surface, becoming glossy and smooth — and then it was gone. The cut was completely gone as if it had never been there.
“Chelsea,” her mom’s voice shook, “I think it’s time for me to tell you something.”
CHAPTER THREE
Blood Sport
A deep, bass drum beat pounded the floors of a slick basement nightclub, everything vibrating slightly due to the sonic boom of the subwoofers. Though it was early in the evening, the place was packed. Fashionable young people drinking and laughing and dancing filled every space. Except for a VIP section. Cut out by a low wall and raised a few steps above the main floor, it was large enough to fit several lounges and armchairs. Half a dozen vampires in casual jeans and well-fitted T-shirts sat around Gregori Nyx. He had the audacity to wear a hat — one of his favorites from the 1920s — with a tailored suit and skinny green tie. He spoke at a normal speaking volume, and they heard him perfectly, despite the noise of the club.
“Start with the office. If there’s nothing there, try the daughter.” He leaned forward, taking a draw on his cigar, each word sharp with intensity. “Whatever this is… I want us to find it first. This guy wasn’t just playing in a basement, nursing a collection of conspiracy theories. This guy was a cleaner.” A ripple of interest flashed through the eyes of all the vampires present. “For the Council. From inside his own media company. So I’m thinking, it could be blackmail material, against Council members, maybe… We might hit the jackpot.”
He grinned around his cigar, and pointed at one of the men. “Tiger. I want you to make contact with the vampire who liaised between this Drake media guy and the Council. His name is Jordan Wolfe and I want to know if he can be bought.”
***
Jordan pulled into a parking lot outside a warehouse. It was almost full, cars and trucks parked in rough formation beside the large black building. A faint red glow was visible under a dirty front door. He parked and grabbed a worn duffel bag from the trunk. The shouting and hollering of a crowd rose up from deep inside, baying for blood.
As Jordan descended a dark flight of metal steps, the harsh clanging of his boots blended with the cacophony — a thumping sound, fists smacking into flesh, grunts, a smash as a body was hurled into the mesh of a cage. The smell of blood, the faint stink of sweat and alcohol-tainted breath, all mingled with cigarette and cigar smoke, drifting in a haze above the patrons, as he emerged into an enormous basement.
The mesh walls of an octagonal cage rose twenty feet toward the dark expanse of the warehouse ceiling, with a black padded canvas stretched across its floor. Two vampires were grappling, fighting, smashing each other into the mat and the cage with such speed and force it was difficult for human eyes to follow. Cash changed hands in a feverish rush as bets were placed, won and lost.
Jordan headed for the change rooms, unhurriedly navigating the crowd, nodding at a couple of the bar staff who recognized him. Inside, he stripped down and changed, shoving his bag into a locker.
He was relieved he had the time to be there tonight. There was a dangerous part of him that needed an outlet, something violent but not totally out of control. If he left it too long, the predator in him would get angsty. He avoided thinking about what that inevitably led to.
Jordan stalked out of the change rooms into a corded-off area near the cage gate, shirtless and shoeless, wearing only plain black shorts. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, arms loose, while he waited his turn. A few others were in there with him, including his opponent, a blond-haired vampire called Anton, quite a bit heavier but slightly shorter than Jordan.
Thick steel posts were placed a few feet apart all around the cage, providing extra support for the battering it received every night. The fighters wore no protective gear, and the only rules were: no weapons, no fangs piercing skin, and no death.
A loud buzzer sounded, bouncing off the harsh surfaces of the warehouse, signaling the end of the fight. If they didn’t have time limits, the fights could go on for days. Whichever fighter was in a dominant position when the buzzer sounded was considered the winner.
The two vampires in the cage came to a stop, the winner releasing his opponent from an arm lock, pinned against the cage wall, his arm quivering on the verge of dislocation. A referee held the winner’s arm up while the crowd roared their applause. Once they exited the cage, shaking hands and laughing, a cleaner hustled in and vigorously mopped the blood off the floor.
Jordan and Anton stepped through the cage gate and took positions at opposite sides of the mat. The metal gate clanged shut and the buzzer sounded, cheers and whistles rising from the crowd, most of whom were already well warmed up with alcohol-infused blood from the busy bar that ran down almost the entire length of the basement.
The two vampires prowled around the cage perimeter, sizing each other up. Decades of fighting had molded Jordan’s lean torso into a smooth landscape of muscle, every piece moving powerfully and perfectly. Except for the scars. The harsh lights slashing down from the ceiling revealed the largest one running across his left pectoral down to his abs — inflicted by silver weapons, the scars would never fade completely.
Anton lunged first, charging low and slamming his shoulder into Jordan’s midsection, driving him back a step. But Jordan twisted free before he could be taken down, turning to smash an elbow into Anton’s jaw, hearing a crunch. Blood misted into the air to the roar of the crowd. Anton snarled, spitting blood, then lunged again, this time getting Jordan in a clinch and landing a flurry of fists to his ribs.
Jordan pulled out, feinted a low kick and went high instead, catching Anton behind the ear. The stockier vampire staggered, then recovered and charged, but had to duck as Jordan kicked again.
This time, Anton grabbed Jordan around the waist, and hurled him upwards with a grunt. Jordan flew into the cold air, ten feet above the mat, smashing against the upper section of the cage, the whole structure shuddering.
Jordan clutched at the mesh, and hanging, he turned to look down on his opponent. Anton grinned up at him, on the balls of his feet, arms spread wide, encouraging the crowd to shriek even louder.
Jordan’s muscles coiled and released, he dropped like a panther, twisting in midair, a knee colliding with Anton’s chest, then he had him flat on the mat, pounding with his fists. The crowd was howling for more. Inside, Jordan was smiling.
Anton caught Jordan’s left arm and surged upward, flipping Jordan over — but Jordan rolled through and was on his feet before Anton could complete the reversal. Jordan delivered a kick to Anton’s chest, the man taking it with a grunt, before launching himself at Jordan, feinting a left hook and landing a right uppercut to Jordan’s jaw. Jordan staggered, blood spilling from his lip, and Anton moved in, with fists, elbows, knees, pushing Jordan up against the cage wall.
Jordan braced his forearms like steel bars, elbows tucked, chin down, shielding himself as the punches rained in fast and savage. One slipped past and caught him in the ribs — he gritted his teeth as the pain sliced through him. Twisting to get out, he got slammed with a brutal left hook to his temple, dazing him, then a follow up punch to his gut tore his breath away in a gasp as he doubled over.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Anton jeered, as he moved in for more.
But Jordan wasn’t done. He ducked low, shoved all his weight against Anton, and had him on the floor again, this time in a choke hold, his knees locked on Anton’s hips. His bloody knuckles protested as he tightened his sweaty grip. His fangs slid down and he bared them at Anton in a manic grin, squashing the man’s windpipe, forcing all his weight and power into keeping this vampire on the floor. Anton was fumbling, trying to break one of Jordan’s fingers. The crowd was at a fever pitch.
The buzzer sounded, blaring into their ears like a fire siren. Jordan immediately released his hold and got up off Anton, chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping down his face and body onto the black mat.
He offered a hand to the loser, who accepted the assistance and slapped Jordan on the back with a friendly smile as the referee swung Jordan’s arm up high for the win.
His black hair still damp from the shower, dressed in fresh clothes under his black coat, wounds already healed, rehydrated with a clean pint of Type B at the bar, Jordan strolled out to the parking lot, more relaxed than he’d felt in days. As he dropped his bag in the trunk and slammed it shut, he heard a sharp gasp and a decidedly feminine “Hey! Get off!” followed by a low laugh and a scuffle. Jordan stopped, tilted his head, sensed there was a vampire and a human a few rows further back. He could smell her fear.
A man’s voice, menacing, “I said don’t walk away from me, bitch!” A smack, the sickening, unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh.
“Get off me!” she said again. Jordan rounded a dented pickup truck at the end of a row and saw a vampire with a buzzcut and thick jacket, leaning over a young woman he had pushed into the side of a car. She was twisting and kicking, but the vampire just laughed again.
Jordan silently unsheathed his Fairbairn-Sykes knife from its holster under his left arm, a silver-plated version that he affectionately called Freya. Then he approached. In one second he had the other vampire on the ground, Freya’s silver tip pressing into the skin just under his jaw. The two vampires stared at each other in silence for a moment. Jordan could see the red, circular branding on the vampire’s neck. Without looking away, he called to the woman.
“Are you ok?”
“Yes,” she gasped, composing herself.
“You should go,” he rumbled.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered. He waited while her hurried footsteps faded away, his knee still firmly on the guy’s chest. Freya pricked the vampire’s skin, the red liquid hissing against the silver.
“Don’t you know the ladies prefer to be seduced, not mauled, asshole,” Jordan growled.
“You think I care what they prefer?” the vampire laughed, a wheezing, scraping sound. “No dumbass, I want them scared. You know how good they taste when they’re scared,” he rolled his eyes up and moaned.
Jordan frowned, disgusted. He pressed his blade a little more firmly into the red branding under the vampire’s jaw. “You morons make yourself so easy to identify with your stupid symbols.” He pushed more of his weight onto the vampire’s chest. “Have you been following me?”
“I have an offer from Gregori,” the vampire wheezed. Jordan listened carefully for anyone else in the parking lot. Nothing, just the distant rumble of the crowd deep inside. The only other blood he could scent was a tiny whiff coming up from inside the warehouse. They were all alone.
“Oh yeah? Well… the offer is rejected,” Jordan whispered, then thrust Freya deep into the vampire’s chest in one quick movement, angled upward between ribs to reach the heart, and slammed his hand over the guy’s mouth while he struggled.
Jordan wiped his blade on the dead vampire’s jacket, before slipping Freya back into her sheath. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a stainless steel vial. Flipping open its cap with his thumb, he carefully poured silfraska all over the body. He held his breath as the liquid acid and silver concoction hissed and smoked, and the disgusting acrid smell wafted into the air. The entire body began breaking down. No matter how dead a vampire seemed, a Council-trained soldier would finish them off with silfraska, whenever possible. Too many cases of a supposedly dead vampire coming back to life. Within a handful of seconds, Jordan was left frowning at a pile of black ash.