Chicks Kick Butt - Rachel Caine, Kerrie Hughes (ed) Read online

  Cheung looked skyward. “Then put it on the ground.” Ray obliged, and peeled back the cardboard top.

  “That should be enough,” I said drily, eyeing the stash that was revealed. There were twelve bottles, each holding maybe a pint. That didn’t sound like much, unless you knew what was in them.

  Fey wine wasn’t really wine. It wasn’t much like anything else found on earth, either. A distillation of plants, mostly fey in origin, plus some herbs, spices, and God knew what else thrown in for taste, it could put a bull elephant on his knees. That much would drop the whole damn herd, only they weren’t going to be drinking it.

  We were.

  I’d have preferred something else, since my metabolism neutralizes regular old alcohol almost faster than I can drink it. Unfortunately, the same is true for vampires. If I wanted to win, Cheung had to end up under the table. And that meant hauling out the hard stuff.

  “Is it not customary to cut this?” Cheung asked as Ray poured clear liquid into a couple of shot glasses. A little sloshed onto the table. I was slightly surprised it didn’t eat on through.

  “If you feel the need,” I told him sweetly.

  Cheung narrowed his eyes at me and tossed back his first shot. He didn’t do anything so unmanly as choke, but his eyes widened perceptibly. And then it was my turn. I’d proposed a drink-till-you-drop challenge for two reasons. Physically, it was all I was up for at the moment. I was in no condition to take Cheung, and even if I somehow did the impossible, no way was Scarface letting me walk out of here after killing the boss. But it was reason number two that I was betting the farm on. Or at least Ray’s continued existence.

  One of the interesting facets of life as a dhampir is frequent rage-induced blackouts. They are a natural result of the vampire killing instinct mixed with an excitable human nervous system, but tell that to the people who’ve encountered one of us on a rampage. Not that there are usually any left.

  Because of the scarcity of my kind—and the fact that we aren’t on most people’s Christmas card list—nobody had ever bothered to devise anything to control the blackouts. But after hundreds of years of questionable sanity, I’d recently discovered a remedy on my own. It wasn’t a perfect solution: it kept me more or less sane, but it severely reduced my ability in battle—something that, in my line of work, was considerably less than ideal.

  It also had some interesting side effects.

  I picked up my glass, hoping one in particular was going to kick in. Because otherwise, I didn’t have a much better chance at this contest than I would at a duel. I might drag it out longer, but my half-human metabolism was almost certain to be more susceptible to the wine’s effects than a full vampire’s.

  I slammed back the shot, and felt my eyes start to water. Fey wine varied a lot in type and potency, depending on what exactly went into the mix, and this particular batch ought to have been illegal. Of course, come to think of it, it was.

  “You okay there?” Scarface asked, looking amused. I nodded, my throat burning too much to speak, and sat the glass down beside Cheung’s. Ray immediately refilled them, while I concentrated on my version of a Hail Mary pass.

  I had not inherited the vampire ability to mind speak. But I had found that if I drank the feys’ favorite beverage in enough quantity, I could pick up bits and pieces of what others were thinking. And I could speak to the mind of one vamp in particular.

  This had led to some awkward situations, as the vamp in question, Louis-Cesare, was also my … well, I didn’t know what to call him. We weren’t lovers, exactly, at least not yet. And we were only friends in the way that we yelled at each other a lot. But there was definitely an attraction there. And for a few intimate, wine-fueled moments, I’d felt closer to him than to anyone else I’d ever known.

  I didn’t know if he could pick up my thoughts from this far away, as we’d never done any actual experimentation with our connection. But a long shot is better than no shot at all. I downed the second shot and thought, Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!

  Fifteen minutes and a full bottle later, it became obvious that Louis-Cesare was not hurrying. I licked numb lips and decided there was a silver lining. At this rate, I wouldn’t be able to feel it whenever they got around to shooting me. “You owe me,” Ray hissed into my ear as I sat staring resentfully at my tenth or fifteenth or twentieth shot. I’d lost count. But it basically added up to too many.

  “Nowhere near this much,” I muttered, trying not to slur my words.

  “Oh, so now we’re putting a price on friendship?”

  “We’re not friends,” I told him darkly. I’d just seen Cheung toss back another shot. He’d lost his suit coat and loosened his tie, but other than that, he looked exactly the same as when I’d come in. The damn vampire wasn’t even sweating.

  “Don’t talk,” Ray said, putting a glass in my hand. “Drink.”

  I wasn’t aware that I’d been talking. That probably wasn’t a good sign. But at least I was still sitting straight. Cheung had started to list a little.

  “That’s you,” Ray said, hauling me upright and handing me another glass.

  “Hey!” I protested. “He has to drink first.”

  “He just did.”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “It’s difficult to see anything when one’s eyes are crossed,” Cheung said. And then he giggled.

  I know I wasn’t imagining it, because his vamps’ heads all swiveled in his direction, expressions of incredulity on their faces. Scarface scowled at them and they quickly looked away. But a few were coughing and one had to abruptly leave the room.

  I downed another shot and grinned at Cheung. “I c’n do this all night,” I told him. “And you’re already drunk.”

  Cheung gave me a superior look and tried to pick up his glass. He missed.

  “He may be drunk,” Scarface said, “but you’re about to fall on your ass. And as soon as you do, that son of a bitch is ours.” He scowled at Ray, as if his boss’s loss of dignity were all his fault. Ray must have interpreted it that way, too, because he quickly sloshed some more liquid into the glasses.

  “I am not even close to being on my ass,” I said, offended. “And Ray’s gonna be fine.”

  “That’s right,” Ray said staunchly.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d decided Ray really was toast.

  “It’s okay,” he said, massaging my shoulders. “You’re doing great. Just really, really good.”

  “How many more bottles are there?” I asked blearily. The way I felt, we must have gone through most of the case.

  “Nine.”

  “Nine?” I did a little mental arithmetic, which was way harder than it should have been. “We’ve only been through three?”

  “Three and a half,” he said, and refilled my glass.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” I decided after downing the shot. Maybe I was getting my rhythm.

  “Because you threw it over your shoulder,” Scarface told me, looking smug.

  “Did not.” I looked behind me, only to see an outraged vamp with fey wine dripping down his face. “Oops.”

  “It was for luck,” Ray said defensively, wrapping both my hands around a glass. “Drink!”

  I drank.

  An indeterminate time later—my eyes couldn’t seem to focus on my watch anymore—someone slapped me across the face. “Big, bad dhampir, remember?” Ray said, his face looming large in front of mine. It appeared agitated.

  “Big, bad dhampir wan’ go sleep.”

  “They’re laughing at you,” he said, grabbing my chin and turning my head toward Cheung’s men. “Look at them. They’re laughing!”

  It took me a moment to focus, but when I did, they didn’t look like they were laughing. Mostly, they looked bored and a little nervous. Apparently, the novelty of seeing the boss shit-faced had worn off, and a few of the smarter ones had started to wonder just how much they were going to pay for having witnessed this.

  One look at Cheung, and I didn’t think
they needed to worry.

  His tie was gone, his shirt was open halfway down his chest, his bangs had all flopped into his eyes, and while he might not have been sweating, he was looking pretty damn green. I wasn’t sure how much he’d remember tomorrow, which was just as well, since he also appeared to have developed a fascination with Scarface’s hair. He kept reaching up to poke at the spikes, and appeared amazed when they weren’t sharp.

  “You can take him!” Ray whispered in my ear.

  “Damn straight.”

  The next thing I remember, Ray was fishing me out from under the table. Or at least he was trying to, but Scarface’s foot was in the way. “On. Her. Ass,” Scarface said proudly.

  “She just slipped,” Ray said, sounding frantic. “Anybody could slip. She’s fine!”

  “Like hell she’s fine. Look at her!”

  “I am,” someone said, from somewhere behind us. “Would you care to explain to me what is wrong with her?”

  Scarface slowly straightened, his foot sliding off Ray’s wrist. Ray seized the opportunity to drag me upright. “I love you, man,” I told him blearily, catching one of his hands.

  “God. Just. Shut. Up,” he muttered.

  The room appeared to be spinning anyway, so I followed it around to where a handsome auburn-haired vamp was standing by the main entrance. He had a sword in either hand and appeared miffed. Louis-Cesare, my brain supplied helpfully, after a minute. I was pleased to see him, although I couldn’t exactly recall why. But I sent him a sloppy smile anyway.

  “She has not been injured,” Scarface said, stepping away from the table to give himself room to maneuver. And as soon as he did, his boss slowly slipped off his seat and into a well-dressed lump on the floor.

  “On his ass! On his ass!” Ray said, letting go of me to point.

  “So is she,” Scarface hissed, as I flopped facefirst onto concrete. “And she was first.”

  “Only because you were holding him up! You were cheating!”

  “No, this would be cheating,” Scarface said, and smashed a bottle upside Ray’s head.

  And then things got a little confusing.

  Scarface lunged at Ray, who stumbled back, squeaking. But he tripped over me and slammed into the case of fey wine, crushing it beneath him. Thanks God for large favors, I thought fervently.

  And then I remembered why I was happy to see Louis-Cesare.

  “Love you!” I yelled encouragingly, which caused him to start suddenly. Then, for some reason, he scowled. And then the sprinkler system got turned on, although that might have been later, because when I looked around, I was by the bar.

  Someone was trying to pound the butt of a shotgun through my skull. So I yanked it out of his grasp and brought it down on his kneecaps. He screamed in pain and grabbed for the weapon, we struggled, and it went off, blowing a hole the size of a basketball through the fake wood paneling separating the club from the bar.

  We both stared at it for a second before he grabbed for me—at the same time that another vamp brought a club down, trying to crush my hand. I rolled out of the way and he hit his buddy’s instead, with a crunching sound that indicated a broken bone or three. The first vamp screamed again and reflexively kicked out, knocking his buddy back into a nest of bar stools. The stools scattered, the vamp fell backward, and my hand closed on one of my guns.

  I didn’t even try to aim, since I was the only one there who could be killed by a stray bullet. I just sprayed them everywhere. I don’t think too many connected, but it distracted my attackers long enough for me to reach the hole in the wall. One of Ray’s boys looked through at me, his bright black eyes wide.

  “Scotch?” I asked as a chair was slung across the room at my head. I ducked and the bartender handed me a bottle, just as the chair tosser lunged at me. I broke it over his head, staggering him. “A light?” My lighter was in my jeans, and no way was I coordinated enough to get it out.

  I was passed another matchbook embossed with the bar’s logo, and a second later, the vamp went up in flames. He could have stopped, dropped, and rolled them out, but most vamps aren’t that levelheaded about fire. This one proved to be no exception. He panicked and crashed into his buddy, and they fell to the floor, screaming Cantonese invective at each other.

  I looked around for the next threat, but all I saw was Louis-Cesare standing over a pile of vamps, none of which appeared to be in proper working order. It would have been cause for celebration, if it hadn’t been for the boots hitting the street outside. Deciding to get out before Cheung’s reinforcements ruined the odds again, I tossed a potion grenade at the front door and jumped out the side.

  Louis-Cesare was right behind me. We landed hard in front of the puddle of water that spanned most of the alley. It reflected the explosion in the club behind us, flames shooting upside down, livid and wavering, until a screaming mass of panicked vamps came pouring out of the door. They scattered in all directions, some splashing through the water and turning it into a rippling mass of flame.

  One of the last to emerge was Scarface, with the boss draped inelegantly over one shoulder. “You.” He pointed at me. I blinked at him. “Later.”

  I nodded and waved him off as Ray came scooting out the door, the seat of his pants smoking. “Now who owes who?” I demanded as he hightailed it down the alley. He paused at the corner to shoot me the bird, before disappearing in the opposite direction from Cheung’s vamps.

  “He’ll be okay,” I told Louis-Cesare. “He’ll run straight to the senate, and now that they know there’s a danger, they’ll have to—”

  Somebody started shaking me, which was not a good idea under the circumstances. “Don’ do that,” I said, grabbing hold of Louis-Cesare’s jacket.

  “You’re drunk,” he accused. But he did stop shaking me.

  I pondered that for a moment. It was undeniably true. And then I remembered that there were extenuating circumstances, some of which involved him. “Well, you were late.”

  “I was in Brooklyn!”

  “You went to see me?” I grinned happily. And then stopped, wondering if he’d had some other reason for making the trip. It wasn’t like we had a Thing. Not an official Thing, anyway. He didn’t have to visit, although I couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be in Brooklyn. Louis-Cesare was definitely more of an uptown kind of—

  “Why are you out of bed?” he demanded, looking like he wanted to start with the shaking again.

  “I just wanted a quiet drink,” I said defensively. That and I’d been going crazy with boredom.

  “It appears that you found one,” he said drily.

  “Well, I don’t know how quiet it was—” I broke off, because something in his expression was wrong. It took me a moment, but I finally sorted through exasperation, fondness, and relief to something that looked like hurt. And that didn’t make sense.

  “We won,” I said distinctly. “At least, I think so.…” I looked around. The alley was quiet again, except for the crackling fire and the distant sound of sirens.

  “Yes, we won,” he affirmed.

  I looked back up at him, fuzzily. “So why the long face?”

  He took a deep breath. “I was hoping that the first time you expressed affection for me, it would not be in a room full of strangers. And that you would not have just said it to a sniveling creature like that Raymond!”

  “I expressed affection for Ray?”

  “Yes!”

  “Man, I really must be drunk.” Louis-Cesare just looked at me. I blinked politely back, until I realized that he expected a response. “Uh. Sorry?”

  “Isn’t there anything else you wish to say to me?” he asked impatiently.

  I swallowed. “Yes. Yes there is.”

  Warm arms suddenly engulfed me, pulling me in, and one large hand tucked my head into his chest. “What is it?” he asked softly.

  “I’m about to yak all over your shirt.”

  Vampire reflexes got me to the side of the road instead, and then he crouched
there, brushing my hair away from my sweaty cheeks as I made good on the first part of my threat. He sighed. “One day, you will say it to me again. You will be sober. And you will mean it.”

  I was actually terrified that I already meant it. A guy just might be a keeper if he hears your cry for help in his head. And comes into a den of thieves to get you out. And then holds your hair while you throw up for ten minutes.

  Then again, I was in no condition to judge. But that old saying kept rattling around in my head. “In vino veritas,” I whispered, faintly appalled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I looked up at him as he pulled me back to my feet. “Let’s go home.”

  HUNT

  by Rachel Vincent

  The forest was singing, and its song was all mine. The others couldn’t hear it, with their human ears. They heard only the crackle-roar of the campfire and their own voices. Huddled in down jackets and sleeping bags, they thought they owned the world, by virtue of their ability to tame it, and that was an understandable mistake. But they’d never really seen the world. Not like I saw it.

  * * *

  Soon I’d have to go back to the campfire. To their idea of “roughing it” with battery-powered radios, canned food, and no-rinse bathing wipes, guaranteed to keep you fresh, even days into a showerless camping trip. Soon I’d have to put on my human skin and put away my feline instincts, so I could be Abby Wade, normal college sophomore. I could do that. I’d been hiding that part of my life for a year and a half, and my secret run was just a temporary reprieve from all things human.

  Still, the next few moments were mine.

  My paws snapped through twigs and sank into underbrush, pushing against the earth to propel me faster, higher. I was a streak of black against the night, darker than the forest, yet a part of it, as I hadn’t been in weeks. Small animals fled just ahead of my paws, scurrying through tangles of fallen leaves and branches. The scents of oak, birch, maple, and pine were familiar comforts, relaxing me even as they pushed me for more speed, greater distance. Thorns caught in my fur. Cold air burned in my nose and stroked the length of my body as I ran, like a caress from the universe itself.